So! This is a perfect case study in situations where you should be wary of misinformation.
Take a moment and ask yourself, a project like this requires a lot of time, money and dedication of resources, why would scientists dedicate that time to something that could just be done by a tree?
The answer is they wouldn't. So that means this claim requires further investigation!
This project is called LIQUID 3, and it's not meant for cities with wide open spaces, it's meant for cities like Belgrade in Serbia. These cities are densely populated and heavily polluted, to the point where pollution actually chokes out current trees and makes creating green spaces difficult.
Liquid 3 was a PhD scientists answer to these problems. The microalgae tank is intended for spaces where you either:
Don't have enough space to plant full trees, or
Don't have enough time to plant trees and wait for them to grow up.
The tank is extremely efficient when you consider the amount of space needed compared to the amount of CO2 turned into oxygen. The tank can operate throughout the winter. And most importantly, it can be quickly set up in areas that desperately need relief from air pollution NOW not in 10 years when trees are done growing. Children currently suffocating on polluted air can't wait for trees to grow, they need to be taken care of now, and Liquid 3 is one of the ways to take care of them. Depending on the species of microalgea used, a number have shown a pretty amazing capacity to pull heavy metals out of the air which is something trees can get choked up by.
The tanks aren't just tanks either! Liquid 3 have solar panels placed on top, they have lighting and mobile phone charging, and they work as public benches. The designers of it want to encourage green spaces where there's room, but where there isn't room or time, Liquid 3 can step in. Realistically, this isn't a replacement for trees. It's replacing boring metal city benches with new, cooler benches that also clean the air (and have at least some heating during the winter).
Not only that, but the microalgea that grows is native to Serbia and all that microalgea has a ton of great uses! It makes for great fertilizer, compost, wastewater treatment, cleaner biofuels and even for helping create new tanks for further air purification. They only require a quick algae divide once a month, and the produced algae can be carted off to where ever it's needed. This makes them effective solutions for areas that can't sustain complex installations.
So yeah, there's actually quite a lot of places that would like these. Lots of people currently breathing in terrible quality air would much rather have their boring city benches replaced with really fucking cool algae tanks that clean the air and can be used to help create + sustain future green spaces in cities. I dunno about you, but I'd take that over a dumb metal bench any day. Put these at every bus stop and I'd be delighted.
Serbian here living in Belgrade! This is all true and I've actually seen some of these around the city a few times. They're amazing at what they do and really cool to watch up close because you can see pretty swirling inside them. It's not only functional but aesthetically pretty nice as well!
A/N: Hi anon! :) I’ve always loved the idea of Varka as a father: patient, warm, a little indulgent, and very intentional with the way he teaches. I hope you enjoy! :)
Tags: Domestic Fluff. Married Life. Female Reader. Boy Dad Varka. Family Moments. Parenting. Affection.
Word count: 2252
⋆ ✦ ⋆
“Again.”
The wooden practice sword is too big for him. Your son lifts it with both hands, and the tip drags slightly in the dirt before he manages to raise it to something approximating a ready position.
His stance is wide, feet planted in a way that might be stable if his weight weren’t entirely on his front foot. His grip is uneven, one hand too high on the hilt, the other barely hanging on.
Varka watches from a few paces away, arms crossed loosely over his chest, expression serious in that way he gets when he’s teaching.
Your son’s face is set in concentration. Jaw tight, brow furrowed, so much like Varka’s own expression when he’s working through a problem that you can’t help but smile where you’re watching.
“Your footing’s wrong,” Varka says.
“It’s not.”
“It is.” Varka takes a step closer. “You’re going to fall like that.”
“I won’t!” Your son’s chin juts out.
“You will.”
“I won’t,” he insists.
Varka exhales slowly through his nose. You can see him fighting a smile. “Alright,” he says, stepping back again. “Show me.”
Your son adjusts his grip and squares his shoulders. Then he swings.
The wooden sword arcs through the air. His balance shifts. His front foot slides. The momentum of the swing pulls him sideways and suddenly he’s tipping, falling, the sword flying from his hands—
Varka moves fast, closing the distance and catching your son before he hits the ground. One arm scoops him up, steadies him, sets him gently back on his feet.
There’s a pause.
Your son is breathing hard. His face is flushed. There’s grass in his hair.
“I had it,” he says quietly.
“You almost had it,” Varka agrees, brushing dirt off his shoulder. “Very close.”
“I did?”
“Mm.” Varka retrieves the fallen practice sword. “Good power. Good commitment. But your stance needs work.”
Your son looks up at him, blond hair falling in his eyes, expression somewhere between frustrated and hopeful.
“Can I try again?”
Varka chuckles. “Always.”
— ✦ —
Training with your son looks nothing like training with knights.
Varka is kneeling in the grass to be at eye level, and your son is trying so hard to copy movements that won’t come naturally for years yet.
“You’re strong,” Varka says, adjusting the grip on the practice sword again. His hands are gentle. “Already stronger than most kids your age. But strength isn’t everything.”
Your son frowns. “It’s not?”
“No.” Varka shifts his footing slightly. “You need balance. Control. Understanding.” He meets your son’s eyes. “A strong fighter who can’t control their strength is dangerous. To themselves and others.”
“Like how?”
Varka considers this. Then picks up his own practice sword. “Watch,” he says.
He demonstrates the movement slowly. Each part broken down. How his feet shift, how his hips rotate, how his arms extend in a controlled arc rather than wild swing. The practice sword cuts through the air with a soft whistle.
“See?” Varka says. “Every part works together. If even one thing is wrong, the whole thing falls apart.”
Your son nods seriously. Like this is the most important information he’s ever received.
“Now you try,” Varka says. “Slower this time. Think about each step.”
Your son plants his feet. Adjusts his grip. Takes a breath. Swings.
It’s not perfect. Not even close.
But it’s better.
“Good,” Varka says, and the pride in his voice makes your chest warm. “Much better. Again.”
They work like that for another hour. Your son practicing the same movement over and over, Varka correcting gently, encouraging constantly, never showing a hint of impatience.
Eventually, your son is breathing hard, sweaty, clearly tired but still determined.
“One more time,” he pants.
“No,” Varka says gently. “That’s enough for today.”
“But—”
“Rest is part of training too.” Varka takes the practice sword, sets it aside. “Your muscles need time to recover. That’s when they get stronger.”
Your son looks skeptical but nods.
Varka ruffles his hair. “You did well today. Better than last time.”
“Really?”
“Would I lie?”
Your son grins.
“Can we go to the ruins now?”
Varka’s expression shifts and becomes more guarded. “Ah,” he says.
“You promised we could go sometime!”
“I said we might go sometime. That’s different from a promise.”
“Papa.” Your son tugs on his hand. “Please?”
Varka glances toward you.
You’ve been watching this whole exchange with barely contained amusement.
“You’re thinking about saying no,” you call out.
“I am thinking very seriously about saying no,” Varka confirms.
Your son looks between you both—learning already how these negotiations work.
“But,” Varka adds after a long pause, “we can go near the ruins.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s significantly safer.”
“I want to go inside.”
“You want to do many things,” Varka says with the patience of a parent who’s had this conversation before, “that are currently not advisable.”
Your son’s lower lip juts out slightly. “Please?”
Varka looks down at him. At the grass-stained knees and sweaty hair and absolute determination written across that small face.
Then he looks at you again.
You’re smiling. Because you both know he’s already lost this fight.
Varka sighs. “We stay where I can see you,” he says.
“I will!”
“You don’t wander off.”
“I won’t!”
“You listen immediately when I tell you to stop or come back.”
“I promise!”
Varka studies him for another moment, then nods.
“Go tell your mother we’re leaving.”
Your son sprints toward the house, nearly tripping over his own feet in his excitement.
Varka stands slowly and walks over to where you’re sitting.
“You’re indulging him,” you observe.
“I’m supervising a controlled exploration of temple ruins,” Varka corrects. But he’s smiling.
“Mm-hmm.”
He settles beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch. His hand finds yours automatically.
“He’s going to want to go deeper every time,” you point out. “You know that, right?”
“I know.” Varka’s thumb brushes across your knuckles. “But he’s curious. Wants to explore. I can’t fault him for that.”
“Just like his father.”
“Just like his father,” Varka agrees quietly.
Your son bursts back out of the house, boots half-laced, a small pack slung over one shoulder.
“I’m ready!”
Varka stands, pulls you up with him. He presses a quick kiss to your lips.
“We’ll be back before dinner,” he murmurs.
“You better be. Or I’m eating both portions.”
Varka grins. “Wouldn’t dare risk that.”
Then he’s scooping your son up onto his shoulders in one smooth motion. Your son is shrieking with surprised delight, hands tangling immediately in Varka’s hair for balance.
“Hold on,” Varka says.
“I am!”
“Tighter.”
Small hands grip harder.
“Good. Ready?”
“Ready!”
Varka starts walking, your son giggling the whole way.
You watch them go. The Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius and your five-year-old son, heading off to explore ruins.
But Varka will keep him safe.
He always does.
The walk takes about twice as long as usual, but Varka wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Papa, look!”
“I see it.”
“No, look—that bird!”
“I am looking.”
“No, really look. It’s blue.”
Varka tilts his head back slightly, following the flight path of a small azure bird cutting across the clear sky.
“Ah,” he says. “Yes. That’s worth looking at.”
It always is. Everything is worth looking at when your son points it out. The bird, the interesting rock, the cloud that looks sort of like a wolf if you squint, the butterfly that landed briefly on his knee.
Varka sets your son down carefully and keeps one hand on his shoulder.
“Remember the rules,” he says.
“Stay where you can see me.”
“And?”
“Don’t wander off.”
“And?”
“Listen when you tell me to stop.” Your son looks up at him seriously. “I remember.”
“Good.” Varka crouches down, looking him in the eye. “I mean it. These places are old. If I say stop, you stop. Immediately. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Varka studies him for a moment. Then he nods. “Alright. Let’s explore.”
— ✦ —
By the time they return home, your son is exhausted: face flushed from sun and excitement, grass stains on his knees, chattering non-stop about everything they saw.
You’re in the kitchen when they arrive. Dinner is almost ready.
“Mama!” Your son barrels into you, hugging your legs. “We saw ruins! And Papa said people from the past were—”
“Slow down,” you laugh, smoothing his hair back. “I can’t understand you when you talk that fast.”
He takes a breath and starts again, only slightly slower.
Varka appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching with that soft expression he gets sometimes. Like he can’t quite believe this is his life.
You catch his eye and mouth: How was it?
He mouths back: Perfect.
Dinner is chaotic in the way family dinners with a five-year-old always are—your son talking around mouthfuls of bread, Varka reminding him to chew, you trying not to laugh at both of them.
“And then Papa lifted me up really high so I could see the top of the wall—”
“And I could see everything!” Your son’s eyes are bright.
“That sounds wonderful,” you say, ladling more soup into his bowl.
After dinner, your son helps clear the table—or tries to, at least. Mostly he just carries his own bowl very carefully to the counter while Varka handles the rest.
Bath time is another negotiation.
“I’m not even dirty,” your son protests.
“You have mud behind your ears,” you point out.
“That’s from training!”
“Which means you need a bath.”
He looks to Varka for support.
Varka just grins. “Your mother is the highest authority in this house. I trust her judgment.”
“Unfair,” your son mutters, but he goes.
Later, when he’s clean and wearing sleep clothes that are already too small, you find him and Varka in the living room.
Your son is curled into Varka’s side on the couch, small body fitting perfectly against his father’s larger frame. Varka’s arm is around him, secure and grounding. There’s a book open on Varka’s lap, but neither of them are reading it.
“…and that’s why you never fight an Abyss Mage in water,” Varka is saying.
“What if you have to?”
“Then you make sure you’re not standing in the water. High ground. Always.”
“What if there’s no high ground?”
“Then you create some.”
“How?”
“Strategically.”
Your son giggles. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the best answer you’re getting at this hour.” Varka’s hand brushes through his hair. “You should be sleeping.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Your eyes are closing.”
“They’re not.” But even as he says it, he yawns.
Varka’s chest moves with quiet laughter.
You settle into the chair across from them, content to just watch.
“Papa?” Your son’s voice is softer now. Slower.
“Mm?”
“Are you the strongest knight?”
Varka is quiet for a moment.
“No,” he says finally.
Your son’s eyes flutter open. “You’re not?”
“I’m strong,” Varka says. “But strength isn’t a competition. It’s not about being the strongest. It’s about being strong enough. Strong enough to protect what matters. To help people who need it. To make the right choices even when they’re hard.”
“But you’re really strong, right?”
Varka’s smile is warm. “Strong enough.”
Your son thinks about that, processing in that serious way children do when they’re trying to understand something important.
“I still want to be strong like you,” he says eventually.
Varka looks down at him.
“You already are,” Varka says quietly. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Your son is asleep within minutes after that. Breath evening out, small body going limp and heavy against Varka’s side.
Varka doesn’t move. He just sits there, arm secure around your son, looking at him with that expression you’ve learned to recognize.
Wonder and protectiveness and love so fierce it’s almost frightening in its intensity.
“You’re staring again,” you murmur.
“Mm.” He doesn’t look away.
“He’s fine.”
“I know.”
But he keeps watching anyway. Like he’s memorizing this moment.
You stand, move to sit beside him on the couch. His free arm comes around you automatically, pulling you against his other side.
For a while, you just sit there.
“He’s going to be trouble when he’s older,” Varka says eventually, voice low so as not to wake your son.
“That sounds very familiar.” You settle more comfortably against him. “Wonder where he gets it.”
Varka huffs quietly. “Can’t imagine.”
“He’s already arguing with every instruction.”
“Only when he thinks he’s right.”
“So always.”
“Exactly like someone else I know.” His eyes are warm when they find yours.
You smile. “He’s perfect.”
“He is,” Varka agrees. “You both are.”
He leans down, kisses you gentle and sure, careful not to jostle your sleeping son.
When he pulls back, you’re both smiling.
“Should we move him to bed?” you ask.
Varka glances down at your son: completely passed out, mouth slightly open, one hand still fisted in Varka’s shirt.
“In a minute,” he says.
You settle back against him. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Did I?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Hm.” His arm tightens slightly around both of you. “Must not have been ready yet.”
“And now?”
He looks down at your son. Then at you. “Still not ready.”
You don’t argue.
Because neither are you.
Varka sits there with both of you against him and thinks about strength.
Real strength.
The kind that isn’t measured in battles won or monsters defeated.
The kind that lives in moments like this.
Worth everything.
⋆ ✦ ⋆
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. More Varka to follow soon.
૮꒰ 𓈒. ݂ .𓈒ྀི ꒱ა ┊If Varka were a pet, he would definitely be a golden retriever. Imagine him turning into an animal after testing one of Sucrose's potions; because he’s the type to adopt everyone, he would have been all too willing to help. He’d end up as a beautiful dog, and of course, you wouldn't know it was him. You would simply take care of him because he’s such a handsome and playful dog that you couldn't just leave him. You’d feed him, bathe him, play with him, and watch his tail wag suspiciously fast whenever he sees you drinking.
Pet! Varka would love cuddling, letting you scratch behind his soft ears and kiss his head. But deep in the night, the potion wears off, and you wake up on the sofa—where the alcohol made you drift off—only to find soft blonde hair against your thigh. It’s no longer a dog, but the Grandmaster himself resting peacefully. With his head in your lap and his breathing soft, he is clearly content to have all your attention. Even in such peculiar circumstances, he seems to enjoy having you all to himself.
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