gabrielle @fawnbrielle - Tumblr Blog

ooo could you write a piece about varka x witch! reader where she’s part of the hexenzirkel ?? tysm !!

What Is and What Might Be (Varka x Reader)

Synopsis: After looking into Barbeloth's scryglass, Varka meets you, a Hexenzirkel member who reads patterns in fate. You find yourself unable to predict him...and get to talking. Years later, you meet again.

A/N: Hi anon! :) Thank you for your request and for your patience. :) This ended up a bit longer than I expected, especially since I wanted to loosely align it with canon/lore, but in the end I focused more on the dynamic between them :D Hope you enjoy! 💙

Tags: Fluff. Hexenzirkel Reader. Female Reader. Mutual Pining. Romantic Tension. Light Banter. Conversations about Fate. Philosophical Undertones. Mutual Respect. Reunion. First Kiss. Symbolism.

Word count: 6524

⋆ ✦ ⋆

The future, Varka learns through the scryglass, is not singular.

He saw himself standing as the hero who slayed Dvalin. He saw the Abyssal threat and the fate that might fall upon Mondstadt.

Barbeloth had left minutes ago with a cryptic “interesting” and little else. The Hexenzirkel doesn’t deal in certainties. Just possibilities and riddles.

He’s still standing there, mumbling to himself, when a voice breaks his thoughts.

“Most people would phrase that differently.”

He turns.

You’re leaning against a pillar, watching him with the kind of focus that suggests you’ve been there longer than you should have been.

“Phrase what?” he asks.

“‘Not ideal.’” You push off the pillar, moving closer with deliberate grace. “Most people who see calamity in a scryglass use words like ‘terrifying’ or ‘impossible.’ You said ‘not ideal.’”

He considers you.

There’s something old in your eyes. The kind of old that comes from seeing too much, too clearly.

“You always eavesdrop on private musings?” he asks.

“Only the interesting ones.” A slight smile. “And you, Grand Master, are interesting.”

“Am I?”

“Very.” You stop a respectful distance away. Close enough to converse. Far enough to maintain boundaries. “You saw catastrophe and you’re calm.”

“Panicking won’t help.”

“No. But most people would anyway.”

He shrugs. “I’m not most people.”

That gets a reaction—a flicker of something in your expression. Curiosity. Approval.

“No,” you say quietly. “You’re not.”

“You’re not from Mondstadt,” he observes.

“Perceptive.”

“Occupational hazard.” He crosses his arms. “Hexenzirkel?”

A slight tilt of your head. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’re standing in an environment that belongs to Barbeloth, watching me process a vision from her scryglass, and you’re not remotely surprised by any of it.” His mouth quirks. “Either Hexenzirkel or very lost.”

You laugh. “The former.”

“Thought so.” He studies you more carefully now. “I haven’t heard of you.”

“You wouldn’t have. I’m new.”

“New how?”

“Recently invited. Still establishing myself.” You meet his gaze directly. “Alice finds me interesting. Barbeloth took me as a student. The others are reserving judgment.”

“And what makes you interesting to Alice?”

“I see connections others miss.” You shrug. “Between events. Between people. Between possible futures and their causes.”

“Like Barbeloth,” he says.

“Similar methods. Different focus.” You glance at the scryglass. “I read the patterns that create it. The small choices that cascade into catastrophes. Or victories.”

“Sounds useful.”

“It can be.” Your eyes return to him. “Which is why I’m curious.”

“About?”

“What you’ll do.” You gesture vaguely toward where the scryglass sits. “You saw something. Something bad enough that even you called it ‘not ideal.’ But you’re not afraid.”

“Fear doesn’t help.”

“No. But it’s usually present anyway.” You move closer. “You saw possibilities. Plural. Which one concerned you most?”

He shouldn’t answer. Shouldn’t share information with someone he just met, Hexenzirkel or not.

But there’s something about your directness. Your lack of games.

“The one where I become a hero.”

You go very still.

“That troubles you,” you observe. “More than the catastrophe itself.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because that version of me stood there alone.” His jaw tightens slightly. “I was the hero, but Mondstadt would still be in danger. The whole of Teyvat. I never wanted to be a hero if it means the rest of the people have to suffer.”

Silence.

You’re looking at him differently now. Like you’re seeing something you didn’t expect.

“Most people would still take that future,” you say quietly. “Glory. Recognition. Being remembered as the one who defeated Dvalin. What an accomplishment, even for the Knight of Boreas.”

“Most people are idiots then.”

That startles a laugh out of you. “Strong words.”

“True words.” He shrugs. “I’m not interested in being remembered as the hero with such an outcome. I’m interested in making sure people don’t fall in the first place.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. “You really mean that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because ego exists. Because glory is seductive. Because—” You stop. Reassess. “You’re exactly as advertised.”

“And what’s that?”

“Incorruptible.” The word isn’t quite admiration. More like recognition. “You faced the Hexenzirkel trial without hesitation. They say that you embody Mondstadt’s ideals without pretense. I thought it was exaggeration.”

“It’s not.”

“No.” Your smile is slight. Knowing. “It’s not.”

“So,” you say after a pause. “What will you do?”

“About the vision?”

“About the possibilities.”

He considers. “I’ll prevent them.”

“Really?”

“All of them.” He’s certain. “Whatever causes that catastrophe—I’ll stop it.”

“And if stopping it requires sacrifice?”

“Then I’ll sacrifice.”

“What if the sacrifice is your glory? Your chance to be the hero?”

He meets your eyes. “Then it’s no sacrifice at all.”

Something shifts in your expression. “You could ignore it,” you say, voice lighter now. “The vision. Walk away. Let someone else handle it.”

“I won’t.”

“You could wait.”

“No time for that.”

“You could—”

“I’m going to handle it.” Simple. Final. “That’s what I do.”

You’re watching him with that calculating look again. “By yourself?”

“If necessary.”

“That seems risky.”

“Probably.”

“Potentially catastrophic.”

He grins. “Now you’re just trying to talk me out of it.”

“Am I?” Your eyes are bright. “Or am I confirming what you already decided?”

That lands. Because you’re right.

He made the decision the moment he looked into the scryglass. Everything since has just been processing how.

“You’re observant,” he says.

“I’m trained to be.” You pause. “Grand Master?”

“Varka.”

“Varka.” Your smile is warmer now. “Thank you for being interesting.”

You’re turning to leave when he speaks.

“Wait.”

You pause and glance back. “Yes?”

“You said you read patterns. The small choices that cascade into catastrophes or victories.” He tilts his head slightly. “What pattern do you see here? With me?”

You weren’t expecting that question.

Most people don’t ask. They either fear the answer or don’t want to know.

But he’s looking at you with genuine curiosity.

“You want to know what I see?” you ask.

“I want to know what you think.”

You turn fully to face him again.

“I see someone who makes decisions quickly but not recklessly,” you say slowly. “Who values people over glory. Who—” You reassess. “Who will change the course of many futures just by choosing differently than expected.”

“That’s vague.”

“Fate usually is.”

“And yet you’re the one who reads it.”

“I read possibilities. Tendencies.” You move closer again. “Not certainties. The moment you make a choice, everything shifts. New patterns emerge. That’s what makes you interesting.”

“How so?”

“Because you create more variations than most people.” Your eyes are engaged now. "Every decision you make opens new pathways. New possibilities. It’s like watching a tree branch in real-time.”

“Is that common?”

“No. Not like that.” You’re fully focused on him now. "Most people follow predictable patterns. Their choices are… limited by fear or desire or social pressure. But you—”

You gesture slightly. “You choose based on principle, always prioritizing the people you care about over your own fate. That’s rare. And it makes the future around you unusually fluid.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Sounds exhausting,” he says finally. “For you to track, I mean.”

You blink. “What?”

“If I’m constantly creating new branches. New possibilities. That must be difficult to read.”

No one has ever asked that before.

“It is,” you admit. “But it’s also fascinating.”

“How so?”

“Because I can’t predict you completely.” The words come out more honest than you intended. “And that’s refreshing.”

Something passes between you. Recognition, maybe. Mutual intrigue.

“Are you always this direct?” Varka asks.

“Are you?”

“Usually.”

“Then yes.” Your smile is slight. “I’m good at games if I have to be, but most of the time I find them tedious. If I want to know something, I ask. If I have an observation, I share it.”

“Even when it’s tactically disadvantageous?”

“Especially then.” You tilt your head. “Honesty is its own strategy. People don’t expect it. So they don’t know how to counter it.”

He chuckles. “I like that.”

“Do you?”

“A lot, yeah.” He’s studying you with open curiosity now. “How long have you been with the Hexenzirkel?”

“Officially? Six months. Unofficially... a while."

“And before that?”

“Before that I was—” You pause. Consider how much to share. “Wandering. Learning. Trying to understand why I could see patterns others couldn’t. Trying to exist outside of my connection to Khaenri'ah.”

“Must’ve been lonely.”

The observation catches you off-guard. “Why do you say that?”

“Because seeing things others don’t usually is.” He shrugs. “People don’t like being told their futures. Or having their patterns read. I imagine that made connection difficult.”

He’s right.

Uncomfortably right.

“It did,” you admit quietly. "Until I found Barbeloth. She understood. And Alice—” You smile slightly. “Alice finds unusual things interesting, which helps.”

“And now you’re here. Reading my patterns.”

“Now I’m here,” you agree.

There’s a pause. Then he says: “Do you want to walk?”

You blink. “What?”

“Walk. With me.” He gestures vaguely. “Unless you have somewhere else to be.”

You shouldn’t.

You have studies. Research. A dozen things Barbeloth expects you to complete.

But—

“Alright,” you hear yourself say.

His smile is warm. “Good.”

You’re not sure how it happens, but somehow you’re walking with the Knight of Boreas beside you, discussing everything and nothing.

“What’s a typical day for you?” Varka asks at one point.

“Reading star charts. Studying Barbeloth’s notes. Occasionally attending tea parties where everyone speaks in riddles and I try to decipher what they actually mean.” You glance at him. “You?”

“Training. Meetings. Paperwork. Fighting. More meetings. Leading. Trying to relax.” He grins. “Occasionally succeeding.”

“You care about your people.”

“They’re not my people. We’re all Mondstadt’s people,” he corrects gently. “I just have more responsibility for their safety.”

“Still. Most leaders see subordinates as tools.”

He hums. “Then they’re terrible leaders.”

You almost smile. “Fair point.”

The conversation flows easily. Too easily.

You find yourself asking questions you normally wouldn’t. About his training methods, his philosophy on leadership, what he does when he’s not being the Grand Master.

Varka asks about your studies. Your techniques. Your magic. What it’s like to see the future in fragments. Whether you ever wish you couldn’t.

“Sometimes,” you admit. “Knowing possibilities without being able to prevent all of them is frustrating.”

“I imagine.”

“But it’s also a gift. I can guide people toward different outcomes.”

“Yeah,” he says.

You’re walking close together. Close enough that you can see the details. The glint in his eyes when he laughs. The scars on his face. The breadth of his shoulders that speaks to years of combat training.

He’s just a normal man, but somehow, persistently, he’s anything but.

You're aware of him in a way that's distracting.

Unusual.

You read people constantly. Assess threats, potential, patterns. It's automatic.

But with him it’s different. Less clinical. More—

“I got a question,” Varka says suddenly.

You refocus. “Yes?”

“The magic. Your abilities.” He pauses. “What’s it like? Reading fate. Seeing possibilities. Does it—” He stops. Shakes his head slightly. “Sorry. That’s probably—”

“Invasive?” you offer.

“I was going to say 'none of my business.'” But he's watching you with genuine curiosity. “Though I am curious.”

There’s something disarming about his honesty. The way he just asks.

Most people either fear your abilities. In the past they wanted to exploit them.

He just wants to understand.

“It's...” You search for words. “Like seeing a river with infinite branches. Each choice creates a new current. I can see where the currents lead. Which ones end in rapids. Which ones in calm water.”

“And you navigate people toward calm water?”

“Not necessarily. Depends on the people.” You grin. Almost apologetically which is confusing on its own. You’re not sorry for who you are. For how you act. What you do. Not anymore. “But yes. I do. When I can.” You tilt your head slightly. “When they’ll listen.”

“Do they usually listen?”

“They do. If they like what they learnt. Or if they don't know any better.” A slight smile. “But some people prefer their own currents. Even when they lead to rapids."

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Can’t fault that logic.”

You're both quiet for a moment.

Then he says, voice lower: “You’re confusing me.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks almost surprised he said it aloud. But he doesn’t take it back.

“You’re confusing me,” he repeats. “Can’t quite—” He gestures vaguely. “Figure you out.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It’s unusual.” His eyes are direct. “Most people I can read pretty quickly. Assess their intentions. Understand their patterns. But you—” He stops. “I don’t know if you’re being strategic or genuine. If this—” He gestures between you. “—is calculated or spontaneous.”

The observation is sharper than you expected.

Most people can’t tell when you're strategizing. Can’t see the layers beneath the layers.

But he’s watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s determined to solve.

It’s unsettling.

And oddly thrilling.

“Maybe I’ll give you a demonstration,” you say, voice more playful now. “In the future. So you can see for yourself.”

“A demonstration of what?”

“What I can do. When I’m being strategic.” You take a step closer. “Versus when I'm being genuine.”

His breath catches.

“Mm.” The sound is rough. Like he’s momentarily lost words.

You smile. “Just curious, Grand Master?”

"Just curious,” he confirms. But his voice is lower now.

You reach out and tap his chest with one finger.

“You do know,” you say, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial, “we’re not supposed to share our secrets with outsiders.”

His hand comes up and catches your wrist.

“You don’t need to act like that,” he says quietly.

You go very still. “Act like what?”

“Like the mysterious witch. Playing games. Testing reactions.” His thumb brushes your pulse point, probably accidentally, but it sends heat up your arm anyway. “I know being a witch can’t be all power and secrets.”

His perceptiveness catches you off-guard.

Cracks something in your carefully maintained composure.

You almost tell him.

Almost say: They called me a freak. When I was young. When I couldn’t control what I saw. When I’d predict things and people would look at me with fear and revulsion.

Almost say: I’ve spent years learning to be strategic because genuine got me hurt.

Almost say: You’re the first person in a very long time who’s made me want to be genuine again.

Instead you pull your hand back. Step away slightly.

“Well,” you say, voice carefully controlled. “We do live longer than others.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean—” You pause. “My ancestors experienced the Cataclysm. Actively. I carry their memories. Their abilities. Their—” You stop. "Even if I’m younger than that, the weight of these events are present.”

Understanding crosses his face. “That sounds lonely."

“It is.” The admission slips out before you can stop it. “People I care about age. Die. And I just—” You gesture. “Continue.”

“But you’re familiar with that by now,” he says. Not quite a question.

“Yes.” You smile slightly. "I’m okay.” And you are. You have a purpose now, finally understand that being different is a good thing. “A significant part of Teyvat’s older than you, if you think about it. Archons. Adepti. Witches.”

“Sounds about right,” Varka says, and his rumbling laugh makes your heart lighter immediately. “And here I am. Just a simple man.”

“Always the humble one,” you add with a hint of teasing.

“Oh, I have my qualities.” His mouth quirks. “Just stating facts.”

You’re surprised to find yourself continuing: "As for the demonstration. I would need to shape it properly. Choose the right moment. The right circumstances.”

“To show me your magic?”

“To show you the difference.” You meet his eyes. “Between calculation and truth. Since you can’t tell with me.” You smile. “Yet.”

“And when would that be?”

“When the time is right.” You’re very aware of the space between you. How easy it would be to close it. How dangerous that would be. “I’m patient. And I like my demonstrations to be memorable.”

His eyes darken slightly. “I’ll look forward to it.”

The words hang between you.

You should leave. Should step back. Create distance. Remember your role. Your purpose.

But you’re standing there like an idiot, like you’re the one who’s been bewitched, pulse racing, completely thrown by a simple man who asks honest questions and holds your wrist like you’re something precious instead of something dangerous.

You continue talking. About lighter topics this time. You’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to make genuine jokes instead of just participating in conversations that merely exist for entertainment value.

Both have their purpose, and you wouldn’t erase the latter, but you feel different. And so you stay in this moment for longer than you usually would have.

You catch Varka’s gaze more often than not, and something contemplative and wondering exists in his expression. Normally, you would sense something. With him, it’s just pure instinct.

“How long have we been walking?” you ask after a while.

He glances around. “Three hours? Maybe more?”

That’s not what you sensed.

When you left your studies to observe the scryglass reading, you’d seen possibilities. Brief interaction. Maybe ten minutes of conversation. Then separation.

Not this.

Not hours of easy dialogue and comfortable silence and the kind of connection that usually takes weeks to establish.

“What is it?” Varka asks, noticing your expression.

“Nothing. Just—” You stop. “I didn’t expect this.”

“Expect what?”

“This conversation. This—” You gesture between you. “I saw possibilities earlier. Paths. Outcomes. This wasn’t one of them.”

His eyebrows rise. “You predicted our interaction?”

“I sensed tendencies. Probabilities.” You're still processing. “Brief conversation. Professional distance. Separation. That was the most likely path.”

“And instead?”

“Instead we’ve been talking and I can’t—” You stop, frustrated with yourself. “I can’t read what happens next.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t know.” You shake your head. You’re not used to this. “It’s disorienting.”

“For what it’s worth," Varka says, “I’m glad the path changed.”

You look at him.

He’s present and completely unafraid of witches or futures or the fact that you can read patterns he doesn’t even know he’s creating.

“So am I,” you admit quietly.

The words hang between you.

“You should probably get back,” Varka says after a moment. “To your studies. Before Barbeloth wonders where you went.”

“Probably.” But you don’t move.

Neither does he.

“There’s something I want to give you,” you hear yourself say.

“What?”

You reach into your coat and pull something free.

A talisman. Small. Intricately carved. Pulsing faintly with energy.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Insurance.” You press it into his hand. “Against bad possibilities.”

“Magic?”

“Astrology.” You fold his fingers around it. “It won’t prevent catastrophe. But it’ll help align circumstances. Make favorable outcomes more likely.”

“You’re giving me probability manipulation.”

“On a minor scale.” You’re very aware of how close you’re standing. “Wear it. Keep it close. When you face whatever’s coming—it might matter.”

He studies the talisman. Then you.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because—” You stop. Choose your words carefully. “Because you’re going to face something dangerous. And because the patterns around you matter. And because—”

You can’t finish.

Can’t say: Because in the span of a few hours you’ve become someone I want to see survive.

Can’t say: Because you’re the first person who’s made me lose track of patterns in years.

Can’t say: Because something about you feels significant in a way I can’t calculate.

“Because you’re worth it,” you finish instead.

His expression shifts.

“I’ll keep it,” he says. “Thanks.”

He tucks it away. Over his heart.

You say nothing, but something in your chest tightens.

“Come back,” you say. “When it’s done.”

“Planning to.”

“I’ll be here.”

“In Mondstadt?”

“Near enough.” Your eyes are knowing. “I’m good at finding people when I need to.”

He grins. “I believe you.”

“I really should go,” you say.

“Yes.”

One more pause, full of things neither of you are saying.

Then you step back, creating distance before you do something foolish.

“Good luck.” Your voice is softer than you intend. Softer than you usually allow yourself to be.

“You too.” He’s smiling. “With the Hexenzirkel. With your studies. With—” A pause. “Everything.”

Then you’re leaving, walking away before you can change your mind.

Before you can analyze why your heart is beating faster than it should.

Before you can process why every pattern around him feels suddenly, dangerously significant.

You don’t look back.

(But you want to.)

— ✦ —

Mondstadt welcomes the expedition’s return with the kind of celebration that only the city of freedom can manage: joyful in a way that makes even the normally composed knights grin like children.

Varka has been back for days.

Days of debriefings and reports and Jean’s carefully controlled relief that he’s alive and whole.

Days of being clapped on the back by knights, of citizens thanking him for things they don’t fully understand, of feeling the weight of years away settle into something that resembles normalcy.

He’s exhausted.

But he’s home.

The celebration is held near the cathedral and the Knights of Favonius headquarters.

Varka stands at the edge of the plaza, thinking about the things he saw in the memory bubbles. He watches citizens laughing, life continuing as it should.

“Entertaining, isn’t it?”

He knows that voice.

He turns.

You’re standing a few paces away, and the first thing he notices is that you’re different.

Your presence is more assured. The way you hold yourself: confident without arrogance, powerful without display. Your expression is more composed.

But your eyes are the same. Watching him with that particular focus that suggests you’ve been observing longer than he realized.

“You’re here,” he says, his mouth quirking slightly.

“Did you think I wouldn’t be?” You move closer, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. “Alice and Nicole came here anyway. And I had personal interest in attending.”

“Personal interest?”

“You’re back,” you reply, settling on the truth. “I wanted to see if you’d kept your promise.”

“Which promise?”

“To come back.”

Varka huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t break promises.”

“No.” You’re beside him now, close enough that he can smell something floral and strange. Magic, probably. “You don’t.”

There’s a pause.

“You’ve changed,” he observes.

“Years do that.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He looks at you properly now. “You’re more established. Your reputation—even I’ve heard it, all the way in Nod-Krai. The Hexenzirkel’s newest prodigy.”

“Flattery doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s not flattery. It’s observation.”

You smile. “Then yes. I’ve grown. Learned. Become what I needed to become.” A pause. “You’ve changed too.”

“Have I?”

“Yes.” Your eyes trace his face, cataloging differences, reading stories written in scars and lines. “You’re harder. Battle-worn. But still…” You tilt your head. “Still fundamentally you.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good.” No hesitation. “The world has enough people who let experience corrupt them. You remained incorruptible.”

The word echoes from years ago. From your first meeting.

“I heard about Nod-Krai,” you continue. Something shifts in your expression. Warmth. Pride. “Congratulations, Grand Master.”

“Varka,” he corrects automatically.

“Varka.” Your smile is slight. “Welcome home.”

The celebration swirls around you, but there’s a pocket of quiet between you. The kind that forms when two people exist in their own shared space regardless of surroundings.

“I learned a few things through Alice and Nicole, but I’d love to hear the whole story from you. I’m particularly curious about certain individuals you faced along the way.”

“Huh. Really?”

“Mm.” You nod, smiling broadly at him. Without cunning this time because you’re just genuinely happy to see him again. “Alice and Nicole both know to recount events…in their way. But I think you’re the better storyteller, Varka.“ It’s the first time you‘ve addressed him by name without him correcting you, and he notices immediately.

“Then I guess I gotta do that. Can’t refuse such an esteemed Hexenzirkel member.” He chuckles. “Can’t risk our alliance. Sharing knowledge benefits both sides, doesn’t it?” There is a challenge both in his voice and his eyes.

“It isn’t about that,” you say, more reluctant than usual.

“Yeah. I know,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest, grin growing broader. He’s clearly enjoying seeing you more affected than before.

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t certain you’d actually follow through,” you declare lightly, settling on a tone that’s both provocative and sincere. “Most people talk about bold action. Few execute it.”

“I’m not most people.” Hearing him echo his own words from years ago after everything affects you more than you would ever admit out loud.

“No.” Your eyes meet his. “You’re really not.”

There’s weight in those words.

He’s about to mention it when someone calls his name—a knight needing his attention for something official. He excuses himself with an apologetic glance.

You wave him off. “Go. Be the Grand Master. I’ll be here.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He handles the interruption. When he returns you’re exactly where you said you’d be, watching the celebration with an expression he can’t quite read.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, standing beside you, arms crossed over his chest and glancing at you with an expression that you can feel before you even look at him.

You look at him, momentarily lost in his eyes. Have they always been like this? Honest and warm, yes, but the intensity catches you off guard.

You focus on the conversation again. “That memory is fascinating.” You gesture at children playing in the plaza. “I heard about the memory bubbles. And they show what happened. Truth. But they’re still filtered through Alice’s perception of what matters. What’s worth preserving.”

“Your point?”

“Memory is never objective. We remember what resonates. What teaches us. What changes us.” You look at him. “I wonder what you’ll remember most. About the expedition.”

He considers, looking into the distance.

“The people,” he says finally, meeting your gaze again. “The ones we saved. The ones we lost. The ones out of reach now. The moments where everything could have gone wrong but didn’t. The friends I made. The alliances I forged.”

A pause.

“And wondering what was happening here. If Mondstadt was safe. If—”

He stops.

You’re watching him with that knowing expression.

“If I was alright?” you finish quietly.

“That too if I’m being honest.”

The admission hangs between you.

“I was fine,” you say. “Busy. Learning. Growing.” A slight smile. “Thinking about certain straightforward Grand Masters who don’t fear witches.”

“You’re not that scary.”

“I’m terrifying.”

“You’re intriguing.”

“Same thing for some people.”

He laughs. “I missed this.”

“This?”

“You. This. Conversations that don’t feel like strategy or leadership or the usual social gathering. Just—” He gestures. “Honest.”

Your expression softens. “I’ve missed it too.”

The celebration is starting to wind down. Some people drifting home. Others settling into quieter conversations.

“Come with me,” you say suddenly.

“Where?”

“Somewhere quieter.” You’re already moving toward the edge of the plaza. “Unless you’d rather stay and be celebrated more?”

“Barbatos, no.”

You laugh. Lead him away from the crowds, toward one of the empty side streets near the headquarters. The noise fades behind you.

Then you stop and raise one hand.

The air around you shifts. Colors becoming more saturated. Sounds muffling to pleasant white noise. The sensation of being enclosed without walls.

A bubble.

“Magic?” Varka asks.

“Something like it.” You lower your hand. “A small pocket. Private conversation space. Alice taught me the technique. Though mine are significantly less elaborate than hers.”

“And you created this because?”

“Because I wanted to talk. Actually talk. Without interruption.” You meet his eyes. “Is that alright?”

“More than alright.” He looks around. The bubble is subtle, just enough separation from reality to ensure privacy. “Though you said no magic.”

“I said no tricks.” Your smile is slight. “This isn’t a trick. It’s a courtesy.”

“Fair enough.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, standing in this pocket of reality you’ve carved out. Close enough to touch but not touching. The years between you and now seems suspended in this space.

“I kept it,” he says.

Your head tilts. “Kept what?”

He reaches into his shirt and pulls out the talisman.

Your breath catches.

“You—” You stare. “All this time?”

“All this time.” He holds it carefully. The carving is worn now, smoothed by years of contact. But it still pulses faintly. “Through everything. I kept it close.”

“Did it help?”

“I’m alive.” He looks at you. “And we came back. We’re home. So yes. I think it helped.”

You’re very still, looking at the talisman in his hand like it means something more than probability manipulation.

“May I?” you ask quietly.

He hands it over.

You hold it gently, run your fingers over the worn carving. Your expression is complicated. Surprise and something softer underneath.

“You were supposed to keep it safe,” you murmur. “As insurance. I didn’t think you’d—” You stop. “Most people would have lost this. Or stored it somewhere safe. Not carried it through active combat.”

“It was important.”

You look up at him. Searching.

“Why?” you ask.

“Because you gave it to me,” he says. “Because you said it might matter. Because—” He stops. “I thought about you,” he continues. “Out there. Wondered if you were alright. If you’d advanced in the Hexenzirkel. If you ever thought about—” He gestures vaguely. “This.”

“This?”

“Us. That conversation. The way you looked at me when I said I wasn’t interested in being the hero.”

“I thought about it,” you admit quietly. “More than I should have. You’re—” You struggle for words. Rare for you. “You’re difficult to forget.”

“So are you.”

“I’m a witch. Being memorable is occupational.”

“You’re memorable because you’re you.” He takes a step closer. “Nothing to do with magic. Everything to do with—” He stops. “The way you see things. The way you saw me. Just as someone trying to do the right thing.”

Your hand is still holding the talisman. His hand comes up and covers yours.

“You’re not afraid of us,” you say, voice soft. “The Hexenzirkel. You never were.”

“Why would I be?”

“Most people are. We’re powerful. Unknown. We’ve done things people consider morally ambiguous at best.”

“The Hexenzirkel is also the reason I had information I needed. Resources that saved lives. An alliance that worked. Still works.” He’s close now. Very close. “And you—”

His voice drops. “You gave me something to carry. To keep me safe. You cared. That’s not something to fear. That’s something to treasure.”

You’re looking at him like he’s just said something revolutionary.

The space between you is almost nothing now.

“I should give this back,” you say, still holding the talisman.

“Keep it.”

“It’s yours.”

“Then keep it for me.” His hand tightens over yours. “For later. When I leave again. When you leave. When—” He stops. “Keep it. Please.”

Something in your expression cracks.

“Alright,” you whisper.

He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull back.

You don’t.

When his lips meet yours, the bubble around you pulses once more, magic responding to emotion, perhaps. Or just the universe acknowledging something significant.

The kiss starts careful. Testing.

His hand is still cupping your face, your free hand finding his shoulder.

But then something breaks.

Maybe it’s years of distance. Maybe it’s the relief of reunion. Maybe it’s just that you’ve both been holding back for too long.

His hand slides into your hair, gripping, pulling you closer. Your fingers dig into his shoulder, the talisman pressed between your joined hands, pulsing warm against your palm.

The kiss turns desperate. Hungry.

Years of wondering. Years of waiting. Years of catching glimpses in star charts that never showed you this.

His other hand spans your waist, pulling you against him. You can feel his heart hammering. Feel the barely controlled strength in how he holds you. Feel the way he’s shaking slightly like he can’t quite believe this is real.

You make a sound against his mouth, half gasp, half something more desperate.

He groans in response. The sound vibrates through you.

When he tilts his head, deepening the kiss, you forget how to breathe.

Forget how to think.

Forget everything except the taste of him, the feel of him, the overwhelming rightness of this moment.

Your back hits something—the wall of a building, probably. You didn’t even realize you’d moved.

He presses closer, one hand still in your hair, the other sliding from your waist to your hip, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You kiss him harder, pour years of uncertainty and longing and carefully maintained distance into it.

He meets you measure for measure. Giving as much as taking. Present and focused and completely undone.

When you finally break apart, his forehead drops to yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” he manages, voice wrecked, “since you interrupted my private musings.”

“I’ve wanted to do that,” you counter breathlessly, “since you said you weren’t interested in being a hero.”

He laughs. “We’re both idiots then.”

“Seems that way.”

Another kiss. Softer but no less intense.

When you separate this time, you tuck the talisman away. Over your heart. Mirroring where he kept it.

His eyes track the movement, darken further.

“Dangerous," he murmurs, “putting that there.”

“Is that so?” you ask innocently. “And why’s that?”

“Because now I know exactly where it is." His hand comes up. traces over where the talisman rests. “And I’m going to be thinking about it.”

Heat floods through you. “That’s the point.”

“Witch.”

“Simple man.”

You’re both smiling despite the heavy breathing and shaking hands and the fact that you’re both clearly affected beyond rational thought.

“We should talk,” you say. “About what this means. The complications. The politics. Your position. Mine. The Hexenzirkel. The knights. Everything—”

“Later,” Varka says.

“Later?”

“Yes.” His smile is warm. “Right now I just wanna enjoy this. Enjoy you. Without strategy or politics or complications.”

You study him. Then nod. “Alright. Later.”

When you finally pull apart, his hand comes up to cup your face.

“I got a question,” he murmurs.

“Another one?” But you’re smiling.

“The branches. The patterns.” His thumb brushes your cheekbone. “Did you see me? While I was gone? In your readings?”

You go very still.

“You know it doesn’t work like that,” you say quietly.

“So you didn’t see what happened to me? What would happen today?”

“Only vague impressions.” You can’t quite meet his eyes. “Glimpses. Possibilities. Nothing concrete.”

That’s not entirely true.

The truth is you looked. Constantly. Obsessively.

Tried to track his patterns across distance and time and the chaos of one event following the next.

But the branches were clouded.

All you got were fragments. Him fighting. Him leading. Him alive.

Never enough detail. Never enough certainty.

It drove you half-mad.

“I had to rely on reports,” you admit. “On what others told me. News that filtered back. I didn’t—” You stop. “I couldn’t see clearly. It was frustrating.”

“Good.”

You pull back to look at him. “Good?”

“I like it better this way.” His eyes are warm. “Not being predetermined. Just—" He gestures between you. "This. Spontaneous. Real.”

“You realize I’m a fate-reader, right? That’s literally what I do.”

“I know.” His smile is knowing. “But maybe with us, you don’t have to.”

The words settle in your chest.

“That’s terrifying,” you admit.

“Is it?”

“Yes.” You’re being more honest than you should. "I’ve spent my whole life reading patterns. Preparing for possibilities. And with you I’m just—” You gesture helplessly. “Blind. Uncertain. I don’t know what happens next.”

“Neither do I.” He’s still holding your face. “And I’m fine with that.”

“How can you be fine with that?”

“Because some things are worth not knowing." His voice drops. “Worth experiencing without prediction. Worth—” He leans in again. “Discovering.”

Then he’s kissing you again.

Deeper this time. Like he’s proving a point.

And you let him.

Eventually, the bubble dissolves. The street returns to normal, sounds of the distant celebration, cool night air, stars overhead.

But something between you remains changed.

“What will you do now?” you ask as you start walking back toward the plaza. “Now that you’re back?”

“Rebuild. Reorganize the Knights of Favonius. Help Jean with whatever catastrophes accumulated in my absence.” He glances at you. “The usual.”

“No more expeditions?”

“Not immediately.” He holds your gaze. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to see you again. Before you vanish for another few years.”

“I’d like that too.”

You’re both quiet for a moment.

“You know,” Varka says, and there is something mischievous in his gaze now. “If I was afraid of powerful witches, I wouldn’t be standing here wanting to kiss you again.”

You laugh. “Are you asking permission?”

“I’m stating intent.”

“Bold.”

“Honest.”

This time you kiss him. Then pull back before he can deepen it.

“Tease,” Varka accuses.

“Witch,” you counter.

You‘re both smiling.

At the edge of the plaza, you pause.

“I meant what I said,” you tell him. “About seeing you again. I want—” You stop. “I’d like to explore this. Whatever this is. If you’re willing.”

“I’m willing.” No hesitation. “Though I’ll warn you—I’m not easy. I have responsibilities. Duties. Mondstadt comes first.”

“I know.” Your smile is knowing. “That’s part of why I’m interested. You don’t compromise on what matters. I respect that.”

“Well.” He chuckles. “I suppose you’re not exactly simple either. Hexenzirkel politics. Your growing reputation. Whatever mysterious projects Alice has you working on.”

“True.”

He squeezes your hand once before releasing it.

“No clear future plans?”

“From you? Probably inevitable." His grin is knowing. “From me? I prefer paths that allow some adaptability.”

“That’s going to drive me insane.”

“Good.” He leans down, kisses you once more. “Keep you on your toes.”

You’re about to respond when someone calls his name again—Jean, this time, looking apologetic but insistent.

Duty calls.

“Go,” you say.

“What about you?”

“I’ll be around.” You step back. “I’m good at finding people when I want to.”

He grins. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Good.” Your smile is warm. Real. “Then you’ll remember to look for me too.”

“Always.”

Before you leave, you pause. Think about whether to share what’s been on your mind the whole evening.

“Varka?”

“Yes?”

“You said something once. About fate. About seeing possible outcomes but believing in shaping your own destiny. Protecting people you care about.” Your eyes are bright in the darkness. “Do you still believe that?”

“Always have.”

“Good.” You’re almost gone now. “Because I’d like to be one of those people.”

“You already are.”

Silence stretches.

Then, so quiet he almost misses it, you say: “Good.”

And you’re gone, leaving him standing at the edge of the plaza, heart full, already counting the moments until he sees you again.

Jean calls again. He goes.

But his hand finds his chest where the talisman used to rest.

It’s with you now. Close to your heart.

As it should be.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. More Varka to follow soon.