ϟleep tomorrow but tonight go crazy ❤

<<What do you think?>> 

“You could have at least had him holding a stein instead of a sword,” you reply as you cross your arms over your chest. “He would have much rather preferred being immortalized with a drink in his hand.” 

The angel mage appears at your side, emitting a comfortable warmth. 

<<I only did as Grand Master Noelle instructed. She has many fond memories of sword training with him.>>

“And what about input from his wife?” you grumble. 

<<She was, if I remember correctly, too drunk to consult.>>

Nicole smiles and leans her ethereal face close to yours. You scoff at her teasing and look back at Varka's stone visage. He's not quite what you remember. 

“He looks too young and too slim. Must all heroes be remembered for their rippling youth? I always thought he looked more distinguished with the beard and moustache,” you ponder and then add with a sheepish smile, “and the weight he put on after retirement.”

<<Shall I make a custom statue just to your liking and have it delivered straight to your bedroom? I could do it in the ancient Remurian nude style.>>

“I didn't know angels could make such jokes,” you chuckle. 

You look over the statue again. It looks like the Varka you first met—well, the third Varka you met, considering you were too drunk to remember meeting him the first two times—but the Varka you picture whenever you think of him is weathered and grizzled. Hard lines around his strikingly blue eyes. Gray and wiry hair. Hands rough and wrinkled. So utterly handsome and charming that not even old age could mask it. 

How you wish you could have aged alongside him. Not like he ever complained about having a wife who barely changed from the day he met her. Still, it doesn't change the fact that you're nowhere near dying. You're further away from him than you've ever been, and every day of life you live has you drifting further. 

You approach the statue to get an up-close look. He's wearing his old armor that you still hear klanking and jingling in your memory. However, he's not wearing his gauntlets or gloves. His hands rest on the pommel of his sword, bare, left over right, and a band carved on his ring finger. 

You whip your head back to Nicole, but she's gone. 

It's stupid. You know it's not him. It's just a rock made to look like him, yet you still reach out and place your left hand over his. Your own band glimmers in the sun. 

It burns. It aches. It downpours. 

—

The next time you visit the statue, for a moment, you see him standing there facing himself. 

“You're looking more and more like him,” you say as you approach from the side. 

“Mom!” 

You're immediately swept up into a tight hug from your very large son. In truth, his size is the only thing he inherited from his father, but all of his other features are yours. Still, sometimes he smiles and stands just like him—especially now since he has fifty-some years on him, even if the years pass differently for a half-human. 

“It’s good to see you, kiddo. Are you just visiting?” you ask as you ruffle his hair. 

The kid has been traveling around Teyvat, following the same route Varka did in his younger years before you met him—though not for any valiant reasons. As far as you know, he has no ambitions of knighthood. 

“Yup! Don't worry, I already visited the nieces and nephews in Wolvendom and big sis at the church, but I'm headed back to Natlan after I get a picture with Dad here. Can you believe it? None of the ladies believe I'm the son of a great hero! Once I show them a picture of Dad’s statue, they're gonna be so impressed!” he says with a big goofy grin and a thumbs up. 

“Still chasing women?” you sigh.

“Only until I find that special one! Hahaha!” he laughs all too carefreely. “I won't give up until I find what you and Dad had!” 

You can't help but smile lopsidedly. He's always been a romantic—even as a baby, he'd gurgle and clap his chubby little hands whenever Varka would give you a kiss. You’re pretty sure he keeps at least a few photos of the two of you with him at all times. 

“What about Miss Klee? You were always chasing her around with flowers as a kid,” you say.

He visibly stiffens and shivers at the suggestion. 

“No way! That woman terrifies me!” 

You shrug it off. It's the least you can do as a parent to try to nudge him in the direction of happiness. Klee is half-human as well, meaning her lifespan will be similar to his. You don't want your son to spend decades, maybe even hundreds of years, alone after the loss of a partner. It's only been a few years for you, and every day since Varka's last has been another one too many. 

The two of you spend some more time sitting and talking in front of the statue. You listen to the stories about fights he’s gotten into for flirting with taken women, and the waves of their angry boyfriends in his wake. You would say that he’s hopeless, but so were you at one point, just in the other direction. 

The sun begins to set, and your son lies with his head in your lap as you stroke his hair away from his forehead. 

“Mom, tell me the story of how you hated the moon so Dad put a new one in the sky for you.”

—

You visit him a year later. No signs of wear yet. The church is diligent with the upkeep. 

“Lupical!” 

You turn around at the rough voice and see a grizzled man standing with a small child in his arms. With wild grey hair and scars on his face and arms, Razor looks remarkably like the Varka you remember, despite there being no blood relation. 

“Hey there, kid. Another child?” you question as you stare at the little one. 

The human reproduction timeline is still unfamiliar to you, regardless of having your own half-human child. Even in his final years, Varka was convinced there was a possibility he could give you another. Still, Razor and his wife are both considered elderly in human years, and you believed the sixth child to be their last. 

“This is my grandchild. June's firstborn. Her name is Liana,” Razor says. His language is still simple, but far more expansive than when you first met him in his teenage years. 

“I brought her to meet her great-grandfather,” he says as he nods towards the statue. “She can meet her great-grandmother now, too.” 

The little girl looks at you and then buries her face into Razor’s shoulder. You step closer so that Razor can put his other arm around you. He presses his nose to your hair and inhales, relaxing at your scent. The little one turns her face toward you and gives a quick sniff. 

“Old auntie. Big uncle. Wine,” she says quietly. 

You had drinks with Rosaria at Angel's Share earlier and indulged in one of her cigarettes. If only they could have the same effects on you as they do on humans. 

“He smelled like wine, too,” Razor laughs and lets go of you to point her toward Varka's statue. 

Grandchildren. Great-grandchildren. Varka would have been the one to keep up with them all. He should be the one here meeting little Liana. He should be the one to see and guide the generations of great-great-grandchildren and beyond. He was the one who told all the stories your son loved. He was the one who kept people together. 

How awful and strange that you prefer a life of transience and yet here you are, stuck in this world. Varka was like an anchor, a man so heavily rooted in his home and the hearts of many, and now he's gone like the breeze. 

“Why’s him not moving?” Liana asks as she points her tiny hand at the statue. 

“This is to remember him. He will never die if he is remembered,” Razor says.

—

Moss has to be cleared off the statue every few months now. Annoying, but it brings you back more frequently to do the job. 

Lately, you've been finding unopened bottles of dandelion wine at his feet. You always help yourself to it, figuring it's a reward from the folks in the city for keeping the old Grand Master clean. 

One day, as you're crouched down cleaning, footsteps rustle the grass behind you. You turn and see a young woman standing there, clutching a glass bottle to her chest. 

“Ah! Sorry! I'm just here to make an offering!” she squeaks. 

“An offering?”

“To the legendary Grand Master! Apparently, if you leave a bottle of wine at the statue, his spirit drinks it and gives you a blessing to pass the Knights of Favonius exams in return,” she says and presents the bottle. 

Oh.

You look to the side sheepishly. 

“Come,” you beckon and hold out your hand. “He would have preferred you to drink and enjoy it.”

You take a seat in the grass and lean back against the pedestal. The girl joins you and gives you the bottle that you uncork with your teeth. You offer her the first sip. 

“You speak as if you knew him. It's been 150 years since his time,” she says as she passes you the bottle. 

“I spend a lot of time in the library,” you say and take a much longer swig. 

“So do I. I've never seen you there.” She narrows her eyes and looks you up and down. 

You huff out your nose and pass her the bottle again. It's not like being non-human is any sort of secretive thing in this world. You've learned it's a lot easier to try to pretend to be more human so as not to provoke too many questions about yourself. 

“Then clearly you're not studying enough. Otherwise, you wouldn't feel so uncertain about passing your exams that you would rely on a statue to help you.”

The girl grumbles and takes several long sips of the wine. She releases herself with a gasp and leans her head back against the stone. 

“Or maybe I'm just stupid! And weak! And timid!” she laments. 

You snatch the bottle from her and down the remaining half. She goes to protest, but you stand up and set the empty bottle on the pedestal. You look up at Varka and sigh before going to rummage through the grass until you find two long and sturdy sticks. 

“Get up. Show me your footwork,” you command. 

“But I'm tipsy now!” she whines. 

“And that man could swing two claymores around gracefully while ten bottles deep! Now, up!” you demand as you toss her one of the sticks. 

She obliges and takes a stance against you. 

The two of you train until dark—mostly you whacking her ankles into place with your stick. Only when she successfully blocks and counters your correction do you give her permission to rest. 

When you return months later to clear the moss, the empty bottle still sits on the pedestal. It's half-full with rainwater, but the words, “I passed!” are written on the label.

—

It's one of those days. Despite the years being empty, they feel too heavy when stacked upon each other in the hundreds. The world is too different now. You could even go to another one now if you wanted to, by some kind of sky ship. But then, who would tend to him and the weathered edges of his stone? 

Raindrops trickling down your cheek awaken you from your respite. Thunder rumbles dully, unthreatening like a gentle reminder of a greater presence. The actual storm is past the cliffs and over the ocean, merely brushing you with its fingertips. 

“Beautiful lady, why are you alone in the rain?”

You blink and see a youthful figure sitting on the plinth. 

“I'm not alone,” you say and straighten up. “It's been a while, bard.”

“Have we met before?” he asks. 

Every fifty or so years. He's like you in that it's easier to pretend to be human as to not raise questions. You humor him, and he humors you in return. 

“Play me a song and perhaps I'll recall,” you say. 

“I'm actually collecting songs about the legendary hero here,” the bard says as he floats away from the statue and spins to look at it. “Not many about him are sung these days. Most of his songs are for the lyre, though it seems the people prefer electro music in these times.” 

“That's sad,” you mumble as raindrops collect on your clothes. 

“I think I shall try to compose a new one,” he muses. A lyre materializes in his hands. 

“Even though songs on the lyre are not popular?” 

“I believe there is no better medium to carry a song than the wind, and there is no better instrument than the lyre for the wind to pick up,” he says astutely. “The strings have the ability to stir the soul, no matter what age we live in.” 

“I see. So what will the song be about? His bond with Boreas? His battle with the Bloodstained Knight? His astounding alcohol capacity?” you question. 

“Nah, all of those topics have been covered over and over by many.”

“So what's left?”

“Why, the only thing that matters! The one thing everybody loves a song about: Love!” the bard declares with a grin that brightens the gloomy weather. “Will you help me?” 

“I don't know anything about music…”

“That's alright,” he says and begins to strum on the lyre. “Just tell me what it's like to love and be loved. I will turn it into a song.”

You look at the statue. A halting smile torments your lips. You glance at the hands on the pommel. The carved ring has worn down with all the times you've run your hand over it. 

It rains a little harder, but only beneath your eyes. You turn to look at the bard and steel yourself. He continues to strum, and you speak of a man who was never afraid to love before it was shown to him. A man who knew your heart before you met him. A man who never made a fool of the hopeful. 

The storm moves further away from the cliffs. The sun reveals himself from behind the clouds. The raindrops evaporate into the air, lifting away the heaviness of the empty years. And the notes of the lyre really do carry like the wind.

a/n: i wrote this on a whim after seeing the prompt in the collab list. i consider this to be the unplanned epilogue of my varka series, but not the last that i'll write, of course. absolutely sick of me to write the end before i publish the prologue and of course the post story-quest climax and conclusions. don't worry, that's all coming too.

thank you if you have read this far!