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The quiet in Varka’s office was different lately. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of paperwork and planning, but a heavy, thoughtful silence.
He’d stare at the map of Teyvat on his wall, his gaze inevitably drifting south, to the lush, illustrated forests of Sumeru. That’s where he was. The one person whose sharp tongue and sharper eyes could cut through Varka’s boisterous demeanour like a warm knife through butter.
He missed the way the Wanderer would roll his eyes at his jokes, a scoff hiding the faintest curve of a smile. He missed the unexpected moments of quiet companionship—sitting on a windswept cliff near Mondstadt, not speaking, just watching the sky bleed into sunset. He even missed the arguments, the spirited debates about philosophy and purpose that left his own mind feeling invigorated and challenged.
A breeze drifted through the window, carrying the scent of dandelions and freedom. But to Varka, it just felt like a reminder of distance. The Anemo Archon's gift connected all of Teyvat, yet it couldn't carry a whispered thought quite far enough.
He chuckled to himself, a low, rumbling sound. “Look at me. The Knight of Boreas, brought low by a heart wandering in a rainforest." He imagined the Wanderer’s likely retort: "Don't be melodramatic you big oaf. I'm not 'wandering.' I'm… existing. With significantly less noise."
The thought made his smile genuine.
He took a quill and a scrap of parchment. Not for an official report, but for something else.
The winds here are tame without you to challenge them.
The tavern songs are too cheerful. Even the wolves howl with less spirit.Come back soon, my tempest.
Mondstadt's freedom is a little too quiet without your storm.
Lots of love,
Your one and only <3
He wouldn't send it. It was too sentimental, too revealing. Wanderer would probably call it cloying or foolishly romantic. But writing it made the distance feel a fraction smaller.
Varka leaned back, looking at the stars beginning to pierce the twilight. They were the same stars shining over Sumeru. Somewhere under that same sky, a certain someone with indigo hair and a guarded heart was looking up, perhaps feeling the same restless wind.
And for now, that shared, silent sky had to be enough.
.
It had become a quiet, shared observation in the Knights of Favonius headquarters: the Grandmaster was, to put it politely, completely and utterly besotted.
Albedo watched it unfold with the detached curiosity of a scientist studying a fascinating, if perplexing, natural phenomenon. Today's specimen was a small, grey cat with strikingly blue eyes and a permanently unimpressed expression. It was currently sitting atop a stack of unfinished expedition reports, licking a paw with an air of supreme indifference.
"And this one," Varka boomed, his voice unusually soft, "she has this look. See? This profound, world-weary gaze that sees right through your bravado. And the way she flicks her tail when she's annoyed—it's all in the wrist! Kaboom, just like that!"
"You named her… Kabubu?" Albedo inquired, not looking up from his alchemical notes. The name was… inventive.
"It's a term of endearment!" Varka defended, scratching the cat behind the ears. Kabubu leaned into the touch for a moment before darting a paw out to bat half-heartedly at his gloved finger. "Spirited. Just like him."
Everything, Albedo noted, was ‘just like him.’ The particularly strong gust of wind yesterday was ‘as brisk as his temper.’ The dark, rich coffee from Fontaine was ‘bitter and complex, a perfect match.’ Even a particularly thorny patch of Wolfhook berries had inspired a ten-minute soliloquy on ‘beautiful, defensive things.’
It was, Albedo supposed, a form of sympathetic magic. By populating his world with echoes of his absent beloved, Varka was trying to shorten the immense distance between Mondstadt and Sumeru.
"Perhaps you are creating a cognitive echo chamber, Grandmaster," Albedo said finally, his tone flat. "Your perception is being filtered through a single, overwhelming variable. The cat is a Felis catus. The wind is a meteorological phenomenon. They bear no inherent resemblance to a certain individual from Inazuman origin."
Varka just laughed, a great, rolling sound that made Kabubu's ears twitch. "Ah, Albedo! You analyze the components, but you miss the composition! It's not about what they are, it's about the feeling they evoke! It's poetry! It's… connection!"
Kabubu chose that moment to yawn widely, showcasing a set of tiny, sharp teeth, before hopping off the desk and sauntering away with a dismissive swish of her tail.
"See? That exit! Dramatic, flawless, no room for argument." Varka sighed, a happy, wistful sound. "He'd approve."
Albedo simply shook his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. It was illogical, inefficient, and emotionally chaotic. Yet, observing this great bear of a man being tenderly tormented by a small cat he'd adopted out of lovesickness… there was a certain alchemy to it, too. Not one of elements, but of the heart. It was a reaction he could observe and document, even if he couldn't fully replicate its formula.
"Just ensure 'Kabubu' doesn't develop a taste for volatile Crucibles Elementis samples," Albedo said dryly, returning to his work. "I doubt even your beloved's dramatic flair would appreciate an explosion named in his honor."
Varka's booming laughter echoed down the hall, chasing after the indifferent cat, a sound so full of fond longing that even the stone walls of the headquarters seemed to warm slightly. Mondstadt's freedom, indeed, was currently filled with one man's very loud, very specific brand of missing someone.
.
The alliance between Varka and Kabubu was, in its own way, a masterpiece of mutual understanding. The small, grey cat had appointed herself the silent supervisor of his melancholy.
When he would stare too long at the Sumeru section of the map, a soft thump would sound as Kabubu landed on the desk, strategically positioning herself between his gaze and the painted rainforest. She would then proceed to meticulously bat a stray paperweight off the edge, demanding immediate attention.
When the tavern songs at night felt too lonely, she would curl herself in the crook of his arm, a warm, purring weight that anchored him to the present. Her "profound, world-weary gaze" was, in practice, often just her watching a dust mote float by, but to Varka, it was a silent judgment he found deeply comforting. “Enough moping," it seemed to say. "Pet me instead."
She was a distraction, a comfort, a tiny, living piece of whimsy that kept the shadows of loneliness at bay. Albedo had even admitted (in a very roundabout, alchemical way) that the cat's presence had marginally improved the Grandmaster's administrative efficiency. The reports were now covered in fewer wistful inkblots and more precise, if slightly furry, paw prints.
But.
It was the quiet hour before dawn, when the world was hushed and defenseless. Kabubu was asleep in a patch of moonlight on the rug, a small, serene puff of grey. Varka stood by the window, the letter he would never send feeling heavy in the pocket of his tunic.
The helpful distraction of the day faded, and the missing hit him, clean and sharp as a Galeblade. It wasn't a sad, foggy feeling anymore. It was a specific, physical ache.
He missed the challenge. Not a cat's playful bat, but the electric friction of a contrary opinion, delivered with razor-sharp wit.
He missed the shared, understanding silence that was deeper than any quiet solitude.
He missed the way his boyfriend's hands, usually so deft and deliberate, would occasionally fumble when surprised by a genuine laugh—a rare, unguarded victory Varka treasured above any monster slain.
Kabubu reminded him of his beloved in cute, abstract ways. But she could not replicate the weight of a head leaning against his shoulder after a long day, nor the specific scent of ozone and Sumeru roses that clung to his clothes.
He let out a long, slow breath, watching it mist in the cool air. The cat was a blessing, a fuzzy solace. But she was a placeholder for a heartbeat, a proxy for a tempest.
He missed his storm. The real one. The one whose eyes held centuries of lightning, and whose rare, true smile felt like the sun breaking after the rain. No amount of clever naming or projected meaning on a small feline could fill that particular, person-shaped space in the wind.
Kabubu stretched in her sleep, letting out a tiny mrrp. Varka smiled, a tired, fond thing. "I know, little one," he murmured to the sleeping cat. "He'd tell me I'm being a sentimental fool again."
And he was. Gladly.
For now, he had his duty, his winds, and a small grey guardian. And somewhere in Sumeru, he had a wandering heart to come home to. That would have to be enough, until it could be more.
.
The scene in the Headquarters' main hall had become a familiar, if poignant, tableau. Grandmaster Varka, a man usually carved from oak and thunder, stood by the great stained-glass window, his broad shoulders framed in the afternoon light. But his posture lacked its usual vibrant energy. He was simply… still. In his arms, cradled with improbable gentleness, was the small grey cat, Kabubu, who was kneading the thick wool of his cloak with a soft, purring intensity.
From the shadow of the second-floor balcony, two pairs of observant eyes watched.
"It's the quiet that's the most unnerving, isn't it?" Kaeya murmured, his usual playful lilt subdued. He swirled the wine in his glass, not drinking, just watching the crimson liquid slide. "You expect the laughter to shake the rafters. Instead, we get… this. A man communing with a cat named after an explosive personality."
Jean nodded, her arms crossed. A frown of deep concern marred her brow. "He's fulfilling every duty, every meeting. But it's like he's… operating at half-strength. The spirit is elsewhere." She watched as Varka bent his head, seemingly listening to something the cat was not saying. "He misses him terribly."
"A tragic romance for the ages," Kaeya sighed, though his single eye held a genuine sympathy. "The mighty Knight of Boreas, brought low not by a dragon or a traitor, but by a scholar from Sumeru with a tongue sharper than my sword. Who would have written such a plot?"
"It's not a plot, Kaeya. It's his heart," Jean said, her voice firm but soft. She'd seen the small changes: the way Varka’s gaze would drift south during strategy meetings, the absent-minded doodles of fluttering maple leaves in the margins of his notes, the extra moment he took to listen to the wind chimes near the gate. "Kabubu helps. She gives him something to focus on, something to care for that isn't the weight of a nation or the ache of distance. But she's not…"
"She's not him," Kaeya finished. He took a slow sip of his wine. "A clever distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. Our Grandmaster is a man of vast feelings. A small cat cannot contain them all, no matter how judgmental her blue eyes may be."
Below, Varka shifted, setting Kabubu down gently on a sun-warmed bench. The cat gave a disgruntled flick of her tail but settled instantly. Varka turned, and for a fleeting moment, his face was unguarded. The smile he'd worn for the cat faded, replaced by a look of such profound, weary longing that Jean felt her own breath catch. It was the expression of a man staring across an impossible distance.
Then he seemed to sense their gaze. His head lifted, and the mask of jovial strength slid back into place, a little too quickly. He offered a wave and a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"See?" Kaeya whispered. "He knows we're watching. He's trying not to worry us."
"That's what worries me more," Jean replied, her voice thick. "He carries so much for everyone. Who carries it for him?"
Kaeya was silent for a long moment. Then, a slow, calculating smile touched his lips—not his usual mocking one, but the sharper, more dangerous smile he wore when a true plan was forming. "Perhaps," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "it's time the Acting Grandmaster approved a very discreet, very official diplomatic reconnaissance mission. To, say, review inter-regional scholarly exchanges and knightly protocols in Sumeru. Purely administrative, of course. Could take a few weeks. Require the personal attention of someone with… firsthand experience of the people and cultures there."
Jean’s eyes widened. She looked from Kaeya's sly expression down to Varka, who was now pretending to review a map with forced enthusiasm. A true, hopeful smile finally broke through her concern. "Captain Kaeya," she said, her tone shifting to one of official deliberation, "that is a remarkably astute suggestion regarding regional liaison strategy. Draft a proposal. Keep it… vague on the specifics of the envoy. But make the strategic necessity clear."
"Understood, Acting Grandmaster," Kaeya said, his eye glinting. He raised his glass in a tiny salute, not to Jean, but to the lonely figure below. "Let's see if we can't summon a little storm to chase away this quiet."
They turned away from the balcony, a new, purposeful energy between them. Below, Varka sighed, unaware of the plot taking shape above him, and reached down to scratch Kabubu’s ears.
"It's just you and me for a little while longer, little storm," he murmured. The cat purred, a tiny, consoling rumble in the vast, quiet hall.
Meanwhile, in the serene, sun-drenched halls of the Sumeru Akademiya—or more accurately, in a secluded corner of the House of Daena he’d claimed as his own—the Wanderer was under siege.
Not by monsters or machinations, but by paper.
A teetering stack of manuscripts, forms, and hastily scribbled notes threatened to spill off the edge of his desk. Each one was a fresh indictment. A student’s thesis on Raiden Shogunate-era poetry, covered in anxious red question marks. A researcher’s draft on Inazuman architectural influences, with a sticky note pleading, “Hat Guy, please verify the bit about maple wood symbolism? My advisor is skeptical.” A request to consult on a translation of old Byakuyakoku passages that had somehow found its way to Inazuma.
Hat Guy.
The name was a brand now, and it burned with the heat of a thousand idiot suns. He’d let it slip, once, as a flippant deflection. Now it was his cross to bear, in triplicate, with citations required.
He slammed a quill down, ink splattering like a sigh given form. “I am not a peer-review committee,” he muttered to the empty air, his voice a low growl. “I am not a ‘cultural liaison.’ I am especially not ‘Hat Guy.’”
His own work—a meticulous, personal project mapping ley line fluctuations against historical periods of significant human ambition—lay neglected beneath the avalanche of other people’s ignorance. Every misplaced semicolon, every botched reference to ‘the Electro Tyrant,’ every simplistic interpretation of eternity grated on his nerves like sand in a joint.
A strange, sharp pang twisted in his chest, unrelated to academic incompetence. It was a familiar, annoying feeling that had been cropping up more often.
He looked up, away from the maddening papers, towards the north. The open window offered a view of Sumeru’s vibrant, noisy life—the very antithesis of a certain windswept, dandelion-strewn city.
‘He’s probably laughing right now,’ the Wanderer thought, a scowl deepening. ‘Surrounded by his boisterous knights, telling some loud, simple tale, drinking his terrible wine. He’s not buried under a pile of inane questions about the proper aesthetic weight of a maple leaf.’
The image was clear, vivid, and infuriatingly appealing. The sheer, uncomplicated presence of Varka. A man who filled a room not with intellectual tension, but with warmth. Who would look at this mountain of paperwork and probably suggest setting it on fire for a ‘warm and illuminating distraction’ .
Wanderer’s fingers tightened around the edge of a dissertation. He missed the way his own sharp words would bounce off Varka’s impervious good humor. He missed the solid, grounding weight of an arm around his shoulders after a long day of dealing with fools. He missed the way Varka listened to his most cynical theories not with scholarly critique, but with a thoughtful, warrior’s perspective that often found a kernel of truth he’d missed.
Here, he was just ‘Hat Guy, a resource to be tapped. A puzzle to be solved. There, with Varka, he was just… himself. The storm to Varka’s steady mountain. And the mountain, foolishly, seemed to enjoy the weather.
A junior researcher approached his desk, wringing her hands. “Um, Hat Guy- I mean, honoured consultant? About the subsection on Ritou’s trade tariffs during the Sakoku Decree…”
The Wanderer closed his eyes. For a second, he didn’t see the anxious student. He saw a flash of grey fur and heard a booming laugh carried on a Mondstadt breeze. The longing hit him then, not as a soft ache, but as a fierce, sudden vacuum in the pit of his being.
“Leave it there,” he said, his voice colder than he intended. The researcher flinched. He didn’t soften his tone. “The tariffs are the least of your problems. Your primary source is a forgery from Liyue. Start over.”
As the student scurried away, chastened, the puppet let his forehead thump softly against the cool wood of the desk. The papers rustled, a taunting sound.
He was drowning in the past, in the dry ink of history, while his present (a loud, warm, irritatingly beloved present) felt an entire nation away. And no amount of correcting ignorant theses could bridge that particular gap.
.
The siege of paperwork was breached not by logic, but by a three-pronged assault of sheer, uninvited personality.
First came the smell of brewing coffee, strong and bitter, carried on a puff of Sumeru rose incense. Tighnari appeared at the edge of the paper fortress, holding two steaming mugs. He placed one carefully on the only clear corner of the desk, right on top of a footnote about the ceremonial length of Inazuman bowstrings.
"Your vitriol is leaking into the leylines," Tighnari stated, his tail giving a single, diagnostic flick. "It's causing a minor localized disturbance that's confusing the Fungi near Pardis Dhyai. Drink this. And for the love of Lesser Lord Kusanali, take a five-minute break before you permanently mentally scar another research assistant."
Wanderer didn't look up. "My 'vitriol' is the only thing keeping this mountain of idiocy from achieving sentience and conquering the Akademiya. Go away."
"I brought coffee," Tighnari said simply, as if this was an irrefutable argument. He then proceeded to clear a small, neat space on a nearby bench and sat, sipping his own drink with an air of serene permanence.
The second wave was silent. One moment, the air was still save for the rustle of pages; the next, Cyno was standing on the other side of the desk, arms crossed, his crimson gaze sweeping over the chaotic stacks.
"A strategic analysis," Cyno declared, his voice low and measured. "Your position is untenable. You are surrounded by inferior forces, taking on direct assaults when a tactical retreat and delegation of non-critical targets is clearly optimal." He pointed a finger at a particularly thick thesis. "That one. The author cited a popular Inazuman light novel as a primary historical source for samurai burial rites. It is a lost cause. Surrender that territory immediately."
Wanderer finally lifted his head, a scowl etched deep into his features. "Are you here to offer tactical advice or to state the glaringly obvious?"
"Yes," Cyno said, without a hint of irony.
Before Wanderer could muster a proper retort, the third and final wave crashed through.
"Whoa! Is this the Hat Guy Command Center? The pile is even bigger than they said!" Sethos's cheerful, unmodulated voice cut through the library's hush like a cleaver. He popped up beside Cyno, peering at the papers with undisguised curiosity. "So, do you actually read all of these, or is it more of a... vibe check?"
Wanderer pinched the bridge of his nose. "It is a punishment for a past life I evidently didn't suffer enough in. Why are you all here?"
"Coincidence," Tighnari said, not looking up from his coffee.
"Routine patrol of areas with high concentrations of existential irritation," Cyno stated.
"Tighnari said you looked like you were about to turn a thesis into a paper-mache explosive, and that sounded way more fun than my glyph homework," Sethos clarified with a sunny smile.
They were lying. All of them.
They were here because they'd noticed—the sharper tone, the longer hours in self-imposed exile, the way he’d snap at the wind from the north. They were here because, despite his every protest, they were his… acquaintances (read: friends). His insufferable, persistent, inconvenient acquaintances.
And he didn't push them away.
Sethos, undeterred by the glacial glare, leaned over and plucked a sheet at random. "'A Comparative Analysis of Electro Cicin and Nilotpala Lotus Resonance'... huh. Sounds boring." He dropped it back onto the wrong pile.
"Don't touch that," Wanderer snapped, but it was automatic, devoid of its usual venom.
Cyno, meanwhile, had begun to silently reorganize the stacks by a system only he understood—likely by threat level and potential for factual catastrophe. Tighnari had produced a notebook and was calmly sketching a particularly wilted-looking Padisarah that someone had pressed into a request form.
Against his will, the stifling, paper-choked atmosphere in his corner began to shift. The monolithic weight of his isolation was being chipped away by the sheer, mundane presence of others. It was annoying. It was distracting.
It was… a relief.
He picked up the coffee Tighnari had brought. It was perfectly brewed, just shy of scalding. He took a slow sip, the rich bitterness grounding him in the now—not in the frustrating past of the papers, nor in the aching distance towards the north, but in this moment, with these three idiots invading his space.
"Your tactical advice is flawed, General," Wanderer muttered into his mug, not looking at Cyno. "Surrendering any territory only encourages further invasion."
"Then we fortify," Cyno said, a hint of a challenge in his tone. "We establish a perimeter. Sethos, you are on light duty. Sort anything with illustrations. Tighnari, you handle botanical or biological inaccuracies."
"Hey, I didn't agree to this conscription!" Sethos protested, even as he started gleefully gathering papers with diagrams.
"You are now a reservist in the War Against Scholarly Incompetence," Cyno intoned. "Resistance is punishable by a mandatory lecture on the official rules of TCG tournament conduct."
Sethos paled and got to work faster.
The Wanderer watched them. The meticulous Ranger, the stern General, the chaotic apprentice—all rearranging his personal hell out of a bizarre sense of camaraderie. A faint, almost imperceptible sound escaped him. It wasn't a sigh of exasperation.
It was the ghost of a laugh, smothered by the rim of a coffee cup.
The work was still there. The distance was still a vast, aching thing. But for now, the siege was lifted. He was not alone in his tempest. He had, against all odds and his own better judgment, a garrison.
The atmosphere in the Hat Guy Command Center had undergone a bizarre, yet undeniable, transformation. The air, once thick with scholarly despair and latent electro-energy from annoyance, now crackled with a different kind of electricity: friendly coercion.
Cyno had, with the absolute authority of the General Mahamatra, declared a "Mandatory Cognitive Recalibration Interval." This, in practice, meant he had produced his TCG deck and was now systematically dismantling both Tighnari and Sethos at a small table they'd cleared of Inazuman tax code analyses.
"Your reliance on a single elemental resonance is a critical weakness," Cyno stated, placing a card with a decisive tap. "Your forest is now on fire. And also electrified. You take four points of piercing damage."
Tighnari's ear twitched in irritation. "My 'forest' was a perfectly sustainable ecosystem until you introduced your chaotic, pyro-centric aggression. This game is environmentally unsound."
Sethos just stared at the wreckage of his own strategy, his brow furrowed. "I thought my electro Lawachurl had 'Big Guy Energy.' That was supposed to work."
"It had 'Defeat on the Next Turn' energy," Wanderer commented dryly, not looking up from the paper he was annotating with viciously precise red ink. His quill moved swiftly, slashing through a misattributed quote about the Raiden Shogun's favourite dango. "A common miscalculation."
"You're one to talk about miscalculations, Mr. 'I-Can-Edit-Twenty-Theses-Before-Lunch,'" Sethos shot back, grinning. "Your current life choices are being thoroughly judged by all of us."
"They are not," Wanderer said, but the usual bite was absent. The background noise of their bickering, the soft shuffle-tap of cards, the occasional sigh from Tighnari... it formed a peculiar white noise that made the tedious work less abrasive. It was harder to sink into the familiar, brooding loneliness when Sethos was loudly debating the merits of mushroom-themed action cards.
"Here," Tighnari said, pushing a freshly peeled melon towards the Wanderer's elbow. "Your blood sugar is likely plummeting from a combination of intellectual outrage and poor hydration. This will help."
Wanderer eyed the fruit. "I don't require snacks."
"Your handwriting gets even more aggressively spiky when you're hungry. It's a documented phenomenon. Eat. the. fruit."
With a scoff that was mostly for show, Wanderer took the melon. It was perfectly ripe, sweet and bright on his tongue. He didn't thank Tighnari. He didn't need to.
Cyno won his third round in a row. "The verdict is clear. A comprehensive defeat. As your commanding officer in this interval, I prescribe a five-minute stretch and a review of basic deck-building principles before the next engagement."
"Can my prescription be to set your deck on fire?" Tighnari asked, his tail lashing once.
"Destruction of evidence pertaining to an ongoing recreational tribunal is a serious offence, Forest Ranger."
Sethos, already stretching, wandered over to Wanderer's desk. He leaned over, peering at the densely annotated page. "Whoa. You eviscerated this whole paragraph. Just... scribbles of doom. What did it say?"
"It asserted that the Sacred Sakura was planted because the Raiden Shogun had a personal fondness for the colour pink," Wanderer said, his voice flat. "It was an affront to history, botany, and basic common sense."
Sethos let out a low whistle. "Harsh. Deserved, but harsh." He flopped into the now-vacant chair beside the desk. "You know, for a guy who acts like he hates everything, you're weirdly dedicated to making sure people get their facts straight."
Wanderer paused, his quill hovering over a comma he was about to correct with unnecessary force. The observation hung in the air, as pointed and true as one of Tighnari's barbs.
He didn't hate everything. He hated ignorance. He hated sloppy thinking. He hated... the vast, quiet distance that felt heavier in moments of stillness.
But this? The mild chaos of forced companionship? The shared, unspoken understanding that had brought them here to orbit his bad mood?
It was... tolerable. More than tolerable. It made the weight of the papers, and the other, deeper weight in his chest, feel a fraction lighter.
"Your presence is disrupting my concentration," he said finally, going back to his work. But he didn't tell Sethos to leave. He didn't tell any of them to leave.
From the card table, Cyno met his gaze across the room. The General gave a single, slow, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn't about TCG. It was an acknowledgement: The perimeter is holding. The temporary garrison is effective.
Wanderer looked back down at his work, a faint, reluctant warmth seeping through the cold architecture of his solitude. The work was still infuriating. He still missed a certain loud, warm presence with an ache that was both sharp and dull.
But for now, with the scent of melon and lost card games in the air, and the quiet, stubborn loyalty of three so-called "acquaintances" filling the space around him, it was bearable.
He would never, ever call them friends.
But he also knew, with a certainty that annoyed him, that he would not trade this specific, annoying brand of peace for all the quiet in the world.
.
The last of the interlopers had finally gone. Sethos had been dragged away by Cyno for a “remedial strategy session,” which sounded suspiciously like more card games, and Tighnari had left with a final, pointed reminder about proper sleep hygiene. The quiet they left in their wake was different from the oppressive silence that had preceded them. It was a settled quiet, the air still humming with the faint, friendly echo of their intrusion.
The final paper on the stack was a mess, but a familiar mess. A dissertation on the cultural symbolism of the kitsune and the tanuki in Inazuman folklore. Wanderer’s corrections were swift, precise, his red ink flowing in sharp, unassailable lines. His mind, however, had finished its work a paragraph ago. With the last of his immediate obligations stripped away by his… associates… there was nothing left to hold his thoughts at bay.
They drifted north, carried on an invisible current, past the Wall of Samiel, over the Chasm, to a city of wind and song.
He wondered what Varka was doing at this exact moment.
Was he in his office, the one that always smelled of oak and old parchment and faintly of wolf? Was he laughing with that big, room-filling laugh at some simple joke from one of his knights? Was he out on the plains, his greatsword gleaming as he trained new recruits, his voice a steady boom over the grass?
The image was painfully vivid. The way the sunlight would catch in Varka’s wild blond hair, turning it into a lion’s mane. The crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, truly smiled, not the performative one he used for politics. The sheer, solid warmth of him—a furnace of a man in a world that often felt too cold.
A ghost of a sensation prickled against the Wanderer’s skin: the memory of calloused fingers, surprisingly gentle, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. The memory of being held, not constrained, but anchored. In Varka’s arms, the centuries of weight, the gnawing emptiness, would momentarily quiet. He wasn't a puzzle or a weapon or a vessel; he was just… held.
He set his quill down with a soft click. The library around him was a monument to knowledge, to the intricate, cold logic of the world. But Varka represented something else entirely. Something primal and simple and warm. A hearth-fire in the wilderness. A steadfast oak in a gale. He was uncomplicated in his affections, frustratingly optimistic, and possessed a strength that had nothing to do with a Vision and everything to do with an unwavering heart.
The puppet’s own heart—a thing he often considered more a relic than an organ—gave a familiar, inconvenient thrum.
He missed the arguments. He missed the quiet. He missed the way Varka could see the storm brewing behind his eyes and wouldn’t flinch, would just open his arms and say, “Come here, then.”
Sumeru was all winding thoughts, layered meanings, and ancient secrets. Varka was a clear, ringing note in a complex symphony. And right now, the symphony felt hollow without it.
With a sigh that was more surrender than exasperation, he pulled a fresh, clean sheet of paper from a drawer. Not for corrections. Not for notes.
His hand hovered for a moment, then began to move. He didn't write a letter. He wouldn't. Instead, he began to sketch. A few deft, sure lines—the curve of a broad shoulder, the sweep of unruly hair, the strong line of a jaw usually softened by a smile. He didn't draw the smile. He drew the eyes, looking off into some middle distance, the way they did when Varka was thinking of him. He knew that look. He’d caught it, sometimes, when Varka thought he wasn't watching.
It was just a quick sketch, nothing more. But it was a confession in graphite.
Outside, the first stars of the Sumeru night began to pierce the deep indigo sky. The same stars, he knew, that would soon be shining over Mondstadt. For a moment, he let himself imagine the wind carrying a whisper from the north, a familiar, rumbling baritone on the breeze.
The work was done. The friends had done their duty. The longing remained, a sweet, sharp ache settled deep in his bones.
He looked at the sketch, then out the window towards the north.
"Pathetic," he murmured to the empty room, but the word held no sting. He carefully folded the drawing and tucked it into an inner pocket of his robe, close to where a heart would be.
It was just a piece of paper. But for now, it was a bridge. And it would have to be enough.
Jean’s proposal was a masterpiece of bureaucratic craftsmanship. It sat on Varka’s desk, bearing the official seal of the Acting Grandmaster, its language dry, precise, and utterly persuasive.
"Memorandum: Concerning Enhanced Inter-Regional Scholarly & Strategic Liaison Protocols."
It outlined, in painfully detail-oriented paragraphs, the "critical need" for Mondstadt to "deepen its proactive understanding" of the post-Sage era political and academic landscape in Sumeru. It cited the rise of grassroots research groups, the restructuring of the Matra, and the "valuable, yet irregular" insights provided by "independent consultants familiar with both regions" as key reasons for a sustained, on-the-ground presence.
Kaeya’s contribution was in the brilliant, unspoken subtext. The proposal heavily emphasized the value of ‘firsthand, non-archival knowledge’ and the ‘unique perspective of individuals with deep historical and cultural familiarity spanning multiple nations.’ It carefully avoided naming Wanderer, but painted a portrait of an ideal envoy that only one person in all of Teyvat could possibly match.
It suggested a "temporary liaison office" be established, requiring a senior knight to oversee its setup—a knight of considerable rank, discretion, and personal fortitude, capable of navigating the "complex social and intellectual currents" of Sumeru.
In short, it was a formal, iron-clad excuse.
Varka read it once. Then twice. His initial confusion at the dense language gave way to a slow-dawning, earth-shaking comprehension. His eyes, which had been dulled by weeks of quiet longing, began to spark with a familiar, blazing light. He looked from the document to Jean, who stood at perfect attention, to Kaeya, who lounged by the door with a look of feline innocence.
"This is… an exceptionally thorough analysis of our diplomatic gaps, Acting Grandmaster," Varka said, his voice carefully neutral, though a tremor of hope threatened to break through.
"It is our duty to safeguard Mondstadt's interests through knowledge and connection," Jean replied, her face a mask of professional seriousness. Only the slight gleam in her eyes betrayed her. "The individual best suited for this initial reconnaissance would, of course, need to be someone whose absence from Mondstadt would not critically impact our operations, yet whose stature would command respect in Sumeru. The decision of who to send is, ultimately, yours, Grandmaster."
Kaeya pushed off from the doorframe. "Such a person would have to be terribly missed, of course," he said, his tone deceptively light. "But sometimes, a knight's greatest service is to venture far from home, to forge the bonds that keep us safe. And perhaps… to ensure a certain consultant isn't driven to burn down the House of Daena out of sheer irritation. A matter of inter-regional safety, really."
The last vestiges of Varka’s melancholic fog evaporated. A grin, the first full, genuine one in weeks, split his face. It was the grin of a man who had just been handed a map to a treasure he thought was lost.
"You two," he boomed, the sound making the windows rattle. "You scheming, wonderful, insubordinate rascals."
Jean allowed herself a small, relieved smile. Kaeya simply raised his glass in a silent toast.
The plan was in motion. The paperwork was impeccable. All that was left was for the Knight of Boreas to heed the "urgent call of duty."
Varka looked at the document again, his thumb brushing over the word "Sumeru." The distance that had felt like an impassable chasm moments ago now seemed like a journey. A mission.
He had a storm to catch. And finally, blessedly, the official permission to go chasing it.
The energy in Varka’s quarters was a tangible force, a whirlwind of cheerful purpose that had been absent for too long. Gone was the pensive stillness; in its place was the controlled chaos of a man on a mission.
“Right! Official missives, check. Letters of diplomatic courtesy from the Church and the Guild, check. A vintage bottle of Dawn Winery dandelion wine—for strictly ceremonial purposes, of course, check.”
He moved like a joyful hurricane, packing a travel trunk with a haphazard efficiency. Cloaks were rolled, a spare set of armor polished to a sheen, and a thick, leather-bound journal for “official observations” was tossed in.
Perched on the bed, observing the frenzy with an expression of supreme, detached judgment, was Kabubu. Her tail twitched as a pair of wool socks sailed past her head to land in the trunk.
“You’re coming too, little storm,” Varka declared, pausing to scratch her under the chin. “Can’t have you getting lonely here. Besides, you’re my chief morale officer. And you remind me of him. You can give him your official feline approval.”
Kabubu responded by leaning into the scratches for exactly three seconds before batting his hand away with a soft paw, as if to say, "Get on with it. The emotional displays are excessive."
Albedo appeared in the doorway, holding a small, carefully sealed phial. “A stabilizing agent,” he said, his voice as calm as ever. “For the local flora you may encounter. Some Sumeru specimens can be… aggressively pollenated. Apply it to your person to avoid unexpected vegetative attachments.”
Varka took the phial with a grateful nod, tucking it into a belt pouch. “Always thinking, Albedo. Thank you.”
“Merely ensuring the success of the mission,” Albedo replied, though his eyes held a faint glimmer of understanding. “And… do give my regards to our mutual acquaintance. I trust his temper hasn’t worsened the structural integrity of the Akademiya.”
A booming laugh echoed off the stone walls. “I’ll patch up any cracks I find!”
Down in the courtyard, his horse—a gentle giant of a steed named Gale—was saddled and ready, snorting impatiently. Attached to the saddle was a specially crafted, comfortable basket, lined with soft Mondstadt wool. Varka carefully placed Kabubu inside. She circled once, kneaded the wool into a satisfactory shape, and settled down, her blue eyes already half-closed in regal anticipation of the journey.
Jean and Kaeya were there to see him off. Jean straightened his cloak clasp, a maternal gesture. “Travel safely, Grandmaster. Your reports are expected to be… thorough.”
“Oh, they will be, Jean. They will be. Every detail documented.”
Kaeya swaggered up, a familiar, lazy smile on his face. “Do try to bring back some souvenirs. And maybe a less prickly version of our favorite consultant. Though,” he added, his eye glinting, “I suppose the prickliness is part of the charm.”
Varka clasped Kaeya’s forearm in a firm warrior’s grip. “Thank you, Kaeya. For the plan.”
“Who, me? It was all Jean’s impeccable paperwork. I just provide the… inspirational commentary.”
With a final wave to his knights, Varka swung himself up into Gale’s saddle. He took one last look at the city of freedom, its windmills turning steadily against a bright blue sky. But his heart wasn't here anymore. It was already flying south, ahead of him.
He clicked his tongue, and Gale moved forward with a powerful stride. Kabubu peered over the edge of her basket, her ears perked at the new sights and smells.
The journey to Sumeru was no longer a span of empty distance. It was a path. A purpose. At the end of it was a tempest he’d been missing with every fiber of his being.
He leaned forward in the saddle, the wind catching his hair, a wide, eager grin on his face. The Knight of Boreas was riding out, not to battle, but to a reunion.
“Alright, you two,” he said, to both his horse and his cat. “Let’s go bring a little Mondstadt sunshine to a certain grumpy stormcloud.”
And with that, they passed through the city gates, the official documents secure in his pack, a purring cat in her basket, and a heart full of a wind that was finally blowing in the right direction.
High above the bustling city gates, perched on the outstretched hand of the Anemo Archon's statue, a figure in green watched the departure. The wind that tousled Varka's hair and filled his sails was a gentle, guiding caress—a father's hand on the back of a beloved child, giving a little push.
Venti took a long, melodious sip from his flask, a soft smile playing on his lips. He saw not just the Grandmaster of the Knights, but Varka, the man—the roaring fire, the steadfast rock, the beating heart of Mondstadt’s strength. He saw the weeks of quiet yearning that had dulled that fire, and he saw the brilliant, joyful ignition that had just taken place.
"Ah, my dear knight," Venti murmured to the breeze, his words instantly caught and carried away. "You carry the freedom of this city in your soul, but even the widest sky can feel empty without its own particular star to navigate by."
He had felt it. The subtle shift in the winds of Mondstadt, the way the joyful gales had softened into something more wistful whenever Varka stood alone on the battlements.
The Anemo Archon’s domain was emotion given flight, and the Grandmaster’s longing had been a persistent, poignant melody in the symphony of the city.
Venti’s smile turned mischievous. He’d may have… helped. Just a little. A fortuitous gust that sent a certain crucial document fluttering onto Jean’s desk at the right moment. A whispered inspiration in Kaeya’s ear as he slept, suggesting that ‘diplomatic outreach’ was such a broad, useful term. The winds of freedom often worked in subtle ways, nudging events towards the happiness of Mondstadt’s children.
He watched as Varka and his peculiar little retinue (the noble steed and the judgmental cat) grew smaller on the road south, towards the lush, scholarly land that held his heart.
"To love so fiercely is its own kind of courage," Venti said, raising his flask in a silent toast. "A courage even this old god must admire. Go on, then. Chase your storm. The winds are with you."
He plucked a single, pure note from his lyre. It wasn't a song of parting, but one of escort. A gentle, persistent tailwind that would ease Gale’s journey, that would keep Kabubu’s basket steady, and that would carry the scent of dandelions and freedom all the way to the dense, humid forests of Sumeru.
As the tiny figures vanished into the horizon, Venti leaned back against the stone of his own statue, his smile serene. Mondstadt would be fine. Its protector was following his heart, and in doing so, was perhaps becoming even stronger. For what was freedom, if not the courage to reach for what you love, across any distance?
He took another drink, closed his eyes, and let the warm, approving breeze wash over him. The song of his beloved knight’s happiness was now a bright, clear note in the wind, and it was a beautiful melody indeed.
The last of the documents, stamped and corrected with a fastidiousness that bordered on the vengeful, had been placed neatly on the desk of the Lesser Lord Kusanali. The God of Wisdom had accepted them with a serene smile, her eyes twinkling with an understanding that saw right through his prickly exterior.
“Your efficiency is, as ever, a marvel,” she’d said. “The Akademiya’s foundations are shored up once more by your meticulous hand. You should rest.”
He had scoffed, of course. Rest was for mortals who needed to knit their fragile selves back together. For him, it was merely a tactical pause.
Yet, as he walked away from the Sanctuary of Surasthana, the profound, soul-deep weariness that settled into his joints felt… surprisingly mortal.
It wasn't the fatigue of physical labor. It was the exhaustion of caring. Of pouring his vast, often bitter, knowledge into correcting the endless stream of other people’s ignorance. Of maintaining the fortress of his solitude while three persistent souls kept trying to plant gardens at the gates. Of carrying, for weeks now, a quiet, constant ache for a warmth that felt a continent away.
He found himself not in the House of Daena, but on a high, secluded balcony overlooking the spiralling city. The lush, humid air of Sumeru felt heavy, almost stifling.
He missed the crisp, wild bite of a Mondstadt breeze.
He missed the way it carried the scent of grapes and open fields, not spices and paper.
Leaning against the sun-warmed stone, he closed his eyes. For once, he didn't fight the tide of thoughts. He let the image of Varka surface—not as a distant idea, but in vivid, sensory detail. The solid weight of his presence. The rumble of his laughter in his chest. The way his hands, so capable of wielding a greatsword, could be impossibly gentle.
The longing wasn't a sharp stab anymore. It was a deep, hollow exhaustion. He was tired of being Hat Guy, the consultant, the relic, the storm. He was tired of being alone in a crowded city of scholars.
For a fleeting, unguarded moment, he wished for the simple, uncomplicated sanctuary of Varka’s arms. To let the fortress walls crumble, just for a little while, and have someone else be the strong one. To silence the centuries of echoing thoughts with the steady, reassuring rhythm of another heartbeat.
A soft, frustrated sigh escaped him, lost in the distant sounds of the city below. He had survived cataclysms, betrayals, and the unraveling of his own identity. Yet, it was this—this quiet, human yearning—that left him feeling most thoroughly defeated.
He opened his eyes, gazing north. The sky was beginning to bleed into the oranges and purples of dusk. Somewhere under that same darkening canvas, Varka was living, breathing, likely filling whatever space he was in with his boundless energy.
The weariness remained, a heavy cloak on his shoulders. But within it, for the first time in a long time, there was no bitterness. Just a simple, aching truth.
He was tired. And he missed him.
It was a vulnerability he would never speak aloud. But in the privacy of the descending Sumeru night, he allowed himself to own it, just for a moment, before the walls of his composure began to rebuild themselves with the coming stars.
.
The word [home] was a complicated one. It was not a place with a fixed address. For a long time, it had been nowhere. Then, for a fleeting, painful time, it had been a false memory. Now, it was something… else.
He didn't go back to the allocated room in the Akademiya's guest quarters, with its sterile shelves and impersonal light.
Instead, his feet carried him on a familiar, winding path through the bustling streets of Sumeru City, down into the quieter, leaf-dappled lanes near Gandharva Ville, and finally to a small, secluded dwelling nestled against the roots of a giant tree.
It was a place Tighnari had secured for him, citing the need for ‘a research annex with minimal auditory disruption for the local wildlife.’ In truth, it was a quiet offer of sanctuary, one Wanderer had accepted with his customary grumble.
This was as close to [home] as he had.
He pushed the door open. The air inside was cool, scented with dried herbs and the faint, clean smell of polished wood. A single shaft of late sunlight cut across the floor, illuminating motes of dust dancing in silence. The space was meticulously ordered: a low desk, a few shelves of books and curiosities, a simple pallet for rest. It was peaceful. It was empty.
The profound tiredness from earlier settled into his bones more deeply here, in this private space where he had no performance to maintain. He let his hat, that persistent label, drop onto a peg by the door with a soft *thud*. He shrugged off his outer layer, the fabric feeling strangely heavy.
His gaze fell on the one item in the room that defied pure utility. On a small, high shelf, away from the daily clutter, sat a smooth, grey stone from the shores of Cider Lake, striped with a single band of white. It was utterly ordinary. It was a paperweight, Varka had claimed with a laugh, for when his ‘thoughts got too tempestuous.’ he’d said, pressing it into his hand.
Wanderer picked it up now. The stone was cool and heavy in his palm, its weight a tangible anchor. He could almost feel the ghost of the larger hand that had given it to him, the calloused thumb that had brushed over his knuckles in that moment.
This was the paradox. Here, in the heart of Sumeru, in his place of quiet and safety, the loneliness was at its most acute. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was an echo chamber for absence.
He sank onto the edge of his pallet, the stone cradled in his hands. He traced the white band with his thumb, a slow, repetitive motion. The sketches of frantic work, the distractions of his so-called friends, the intellectual fury at the world’s stupidity—all of it fell away here, leaving only the raw, weary core of his being.
He was home. And home, without the one person who made anywhere feel like it, was just a set of walls.
Closing his eyes, he didn't see the intricate patterns of Sumeru’s knowledge. He saw windmills. He saw dandelion seeds dancing on a gust. He saw a pair of warm, crinkling eyes the color of a summer sky.
He held the stone from Mondstadt against his chest, where a heart might beat, and finally let the full weight of his exhaustion and his longing press down upon him in the quiet, empty room. He was home. And he was waiting.
.
The knock was an intrusion—a blunt, unwelcome sound shattering the fragile peace of his weary morning. He had slept fitfully, the stone from Mondstadt a cool weight on the mat beside him. Annoyance, his oldest and most reliable companion, sparked to life as he dragged himself from the pallet.
He didn’t bother with his hat. He simply yanked the door open, ready to vaporize whatever hapless researcher or errant matra had dared disturb him.
The sight that greeted him was not a person, but a wall. A massive, riotous explosion of color and scent that filled the entire doorway. It was a bouquet of such absurd, unnecessary proportions that it could only be described as aggressive. Sumeru roses in deep pinks and reds, Padisarahs with their delicate bells, Nilotpala Lotuses glowing a soft blue, all tangled with vibrant Kalpalata vines. It was a chaotic, beautiful, overwhelming piece of the rainforest itself, shoved unceremoniously towards him.
It completely obscured the deliverer.
The Wanderer’s lip curled, his sleep-addled brain scrambling for a scathing remark about wasted resources and blocked thoroughfares.
But then the bouquet shifted. And a voice, deep and familiar as rolling thunder, warm as a hearth in a stone hall, rumbled from behind the floral avalanche.
“Delivery for… let’s see,” the voice said, feigning thoughtful consultation. “A ‘Tempestuous and Thoroughly Missed Consultant.’ Also answers to ‘Hat Guy,’ or so I’ve been bureaucratically informed.”
The world stopped. The annoyance, the weariness, the very air in his lungs—it all crystallized, then shattered.
That voice.
It was impossible.
It was a trick of the wind, a final, cruel taunt from his own longing. But no wind in Sumeru had ever sounded like that.
The massive bouquet lowered, tilting to the side.
And there he was.
Varka.
Sunlight catching in his travel-mussed blond hair, his face tanned from the road and split by a grin so wide and bright it seemed to generate its own gravity. His eyes, those steady, sky-blue eyes, were fixed on him, drinking in the sight with unconcealed, joyful hunger. Perched on his broad shoulder, peering over with an expression of supreme feline boredom, was a small grey cat.
For a long, suspended moment, Wanderer could only stare. Every defense, every sharp word, every carefully maintained wall of isolation evaporated under the sheer, blinding force of that presence. His mind, usually a whirlwind of cynical thought, was utterly, blissfully blank.
Varka’s grin softened into something more tender, seeing the rare, stunned openness on his beloved’s face. He gently pushed the enormous bouquet into the Wanderer’s arms—an automatic action, as the other man was too shocked to refuse it.
“Took a bit of diplomatic maneuvering,” Varka said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that vibrated in the space between them. “But it turns out I’m on official knightly business. Something about… liaison-ing?”
He took a half-step forward, into the space that had felt so empty just moments before. The scent of sun-warmed leather, open roads, and Mondstadt wind washed over Wanderer, cutting through the perfume of the flowers.
“Missed you,” Varka said, the simple words holding the weight of every quiet, lonely day.
The Wanderer finally found his voice. It emerged not as a sneer, but as a breathless, disbelieving whisper, muffled by the blossoms pressed against his face.
“…You ridiculous man.”
And then Varka was closing the distance, his arms—solid, real, warm—wrapping around him and the bouquet both, pulling him into a crush that promised to never let go.
Kabubu, from her perch, gave a soft mrrp of protest at the jostling before leaping nimbly down to investigate the new territory.
The stone from Mondstadt was still on the pallet. But the anchor, the solid thing to hold him down, was here now, breathing and laughing and holding him so tightly the last fragments of his loneliness cracked and fell away.
He was home.
.
After the flowers were placed in a large, hastily procured vase—where they looked both absurd and perfectly at home—and after the initial, breathless reunion had been expressed quite thoroughly without words, a soft *thump* drew the Wanderer’s attention.
The small grey cat had finished her inspection of the room’s perimeter and now sat in the centre of the floor, her tail wrapped neatly around her paws, fixing them with that same unimpressed, blue-eyed stare.
Varka, his arm still a warm, heavy weight around the Wanderer’s shoulders, chuckled. “Ah, right. Introductions. My little storm, meet your… furry echo.” He gestured grandly. “This is Kabubu. Adopted her a while back. Saw her giving the world that specific, profound look of judgment one day and I thought, ‘By Barbatos, it’s him in miniature.’”
The Wanderer looked from the cat to Varka, one eyebrow arched. “You named a cat after an onomatopoeia for an explosion?”
“The name,” Varka said, his tone shifting to one of theatrical confession, “came to me in a dream. Just… floated into my head. Felt right. Spunky. A little bit silly. Fits her, don’t you think?”
Kabubu.
The name landed not like a stranger, but like a feather of memory brushing against a long-sealed door in his mind. It echoed in a hollow, forgotten chamber. Tatarasuna. The clang of hammers, the smell of molten metal and sea salt. The laughter of children, bright and sharp. Small, grubby hands tugging at his sleeve. A chorus of high, affectionate voices…
“Kabubu! Play with us!”
“Kabubu, you’re too slow!”
“Don’t be sad, Kabubu!”
A nickname.
Their nickname for him.
For the blank, gentle puppet who didn’t know his own name, so they gave him one. A nonsense word, born of childish affection. Kabubu. He hadn’t thought of it in centuries. He had buried it under layers of scorn, under the names Kunikuzushi and Wanderer and The Balladeer. It belonged to a ghost, to the Kabukimono—a self he had once discarded as weak and false.
And yet… Varka, who knew nothing of Tatarasuna, who had never heard the name Kabukimono… had dreamed it. Had plucked that singular, forgotten sound from the void and given it to a small, judgmental cat who reminded him of his love.
The coincidence was too vast, too impossibly precise. It felt less like chance and more like a whisper from the world-tree itself, a secret gently pressed into a sleeping man’s heart.
A strange, tight sensation constricted his throat. It wasn’t pain. It was… recognition. As if a tiny, lost piece of a shattered vessel had just clicked back into place, carried across time and memory on the paws of a cat and the love of a foolish, wonderful man.
He knelt down slowly, his movements uncharacteristically quiet. Kabubu regarded him, her head tilted. He reached out a hand, not to pet her, but simply to let her sniff his fingers.
“Hello, Kabubu,” he said, his voice softer than he’d used in weeks. The name felt strange on his tongue, both foreign and intimately familiar.
The cat sniffed his proffered fingers once, twice. Then, with an air of supreme decision, she butted her head against his knuckles, a deep, rumbling purr erupting from her small frame.
Varka watched, his earlier grin softening into a look of profound tenderness. “See? She approves. Knew she would.”
Wanderer looked up at him, the man who carried the wind and his heart so effortlessly, who had unknowingly resurrected a ghost of pure, childish innocence and presented it to him as a gift. All the sharp retorts, all the cynical remarks died before they could form.
He stood, scooping the purring Kabubu into one arm. With the other, he reached for Varka, pulling him close until their foreheads touched.
“You,” Wanderer murmured, his eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him—of home, of fate, of impossible, gentle magic. “You impossible, ridiculous, brilliant man. I missed you”
It was not an explanation. It was a testament. In Varka’s arms, with the echo of his oldest, gentlest name purring against his chest, the last shadow of the Kabukimono didn’t feel like a ghost. It felt, finally, like a part of the whole that was loved.
The final, lingering kiss was less an end and more a quiet migration. It held the urgency of reunion, but softened into a deeper, more profound pull—a silent, gravitational need for closeness.
Wanderer’s fingers, usually so precise and deliberate, tangled in the fabric of Varka’s travel-stained tunic, not pushing away, but drawing him inexorably toward the simple pallet in the corner of the room.
No words were needed. Varka went willingly, his own large hands coming to rest on the Wanderer’s waist, his smile a quiet, understanding thing in the dim light. The grand bouquet, the cat now curled on a sunbeam, the stone from Mondstadt on the shelf—all of it faded into a pleasant blur. There was only this: the need to be near, to be still, to be together.
They sank onto the bedding, a tangle of limbs and quiet sighs. Wanderer, with a practicality that belied the vulnerability of the act, helped divest Varka of his outer layers, the leather and wool falling away to reveal sun-warmed skin and the familiar, solid plane of his chest. Varka reached for him in turn, but Wanderer simply captured his hands, lacing their fingers together for a moment before pressing them back down onto the bedding—a silent command to be still.
Then, with a slow, deliberate surrender that he would never articulate, Wanderer lowered himself. He fitted himself along Varka’s side, his head finding its home—the hollow just below his collarbone, where the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart was a drumbeat against his ear. He turned his face inward, his nose brushing skin, and he breathed.
The scent that filled him was an atlas of everything he’d been missing. Sun on open plains. The crisp, clean sweat of honest labor. The faint, enduring trace of dandelions and oakmoss from Mondstadt. And beneath it all, the unique, essential fragrance that was simply Varka—warm, safe, and profoundly alive.
A great, silent shudder of relief worked its way through him. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders for weeks, the brittle edge to his thoughts, the hollow ache in his center—it all began to dissolve, melting under the sheer, overwhelming reality of this presence.
Varka’s arms came up around him, one hand splayed across the blades of his shoulders, the other coming to rest in his hair, fingers carding through the dark strands with a tenderness that spoke volumes. He pressed a kiss to the top of his head, a silent benediction.
Wanderer didn’t say he liked it. He would never admit that being held like this, enveloped and anchored, felt like the only true shelter he’d ever known. That in this cocoon of warmth and steady breath, the storms inside him finally stilled. He didn’t have to.
His body said it for him. The way his own clenched fists slowly unfurled, coming to rest flat against Varka’s ribs. The way his breathing, once shallow and controlled, deepened to match the slow, tidal rise and fall of the chest beneath him. The absolute, pliant heaviness that settled into his limbs, a luxurious weight of utter safety.
Kabubu, from her sunbeam, watched for a moment before giving a soft, satisfied chirp. She then stood, stretched, and leapt lightly onto the bed, curling into a compact circle of fur against the backs of the Wanderer’s knees, completing the circle.
In the quiet, sun-dappled room, there was no Hat Guy, no Grandmaster, no Kabukimono. There were no miles between nations, no centuries of weight. There was only this: the scent of skin, the rhythm of a heart, the purr of a cat, and two lovers, tangled together, finally, finally home.