Chapter Text
The study smells like leather and old paper, the way it always does. Lohen has stood in this room a hundred times to bring reports, wait for dismissal, occupy the edges of conversations between Dottore and his various associates. The afternoon light filters through tall windows, catching dust motes that drift like they have all the time in the world.
Lohen does not have that kind of time. He can feel it in the tightness of Dottore's posture, the deliberate way he's set down his pen.
"Sit," Dottore says.
Lohen remains standing. It's a small rebellion, they both know it, but Dottore doesn't correct him. That's how Lohen knows this is important.
"The marriage arrangement with Mondstadt has been finalized," Dottore continues, folding his hands on the desk with surgical precision. Behind his mask, Lohen knows, those red eyes are fixed on him with particular attention. "You will be wed to their king within three months. The union secures Snezhnaya's influence in the region and prevents further military complications. It's quite advantageous, actually."
For a moment, Lohen doesn't process the words. They exist in the air between them like something foreign, something that doesn't quite have meaning.
Then they crash down.
"No," Lohen says. It comes out smaller than he intends. He clears his throat, tries again. "No. Absolutely not."
Dottore's expression doesn't change, that's the problem with him. He's never particularly emotional, never gives Lohen the satisfaction of anger to push back against. Just that absolute, immovable certainty.
"I wasn't presenting it as optional."
"I don't care." Lohen's hands curl into fists. He can feel the fight rising in his chest, hot and frantic. "Find someone else. Send one of the—" He gestures vaguely, uselessly. "Anyone else."
"You are the most valuable option," Dottore says, and it should be a compliment but it sounds like a sentence. "Raised among nobility, educated, trained. You present well. The Mondstadt court will accept you, and it demonstrates our confidence in the arrangement. Besides, the king has specifically requested someone from a position of status here. Someone with potential."
Lohen's stomach twists. He thinks of letters, contracts, his face described in careful terms to a stranger. A commodity evaluated and found acceptable.
"I won't do it." His voice cracks slightly, and he hates it. He straightens his spine, lifts his chin. That's all the weakness he'll allow himself. "You can't force me."
"Can't I?" Dottore tilts his head, curious. He stands, moves toward the window with the leisurely grace of someone who has never been rushed. "You were raised as my son, educated beyond what your station would have warranted. Everything you are exists because I decided it. Now you will be useful in a way that benefits your nation."
The words land with surgical precision. True. All of it true, and that's what makes it so effective. Lohen's jaw clenches.
"Varka is known for his brutality," Lohen tries. It's his last real weapon. "His soldiers, his expeditions. People call him the Lion of the Battlefield. He's—"
"He's also known for his honor," Dottore interrupts, turning back. "His loyalty. His sense of propriety. Which means he will treat you well, which is more than many brides can expect in these kinds of marriages. You should be relieved."
Lohen wants to scream. He wants to fight, to overturn the desk, to do something that will undo these words. Instead, he stands there, feeling the enormity of his powerlessness settle over him like snow. He has always understood, intellectually, that his position here was conditional. Dottore owned him. His time, his labor, his purpose, but some distant part of him believed there were limits. That he was still, in some fundamental way, his own.
He was wrong.
"Three months," Dottore says softly. "I suggest you begin preparing yourself. Your new position will require a certain... compliance."
Lohen leaves the study without asking permission, and Dottore lets him go.
《~~》
The first meeting is held in a public garden, neutral territory, which only makes it worse somehow. Lohen has spent three weeks imagining this moment, and he's gotten very good at feeling sick about it.
He arrives first. Dottore's strategy, to give him time to compose himself, though Lohen's composure feels like a fragile thing, easily shattered. He stands among the flowering trees and tries to breathe, trying to look like he belongs here rather than like he's being delivered to slaughter.
When Varka arrives, Lohen understands, very viscerally, why people compare him to a lion.
He's enormous. Not just tall—Lohen has seen tall men—but broad in a way that suggests power rather than mere size. He moves with a soldier's grace despite his bulk, and there's something almost predatory in the way he scans the garden before his eyes land on Lohen.
Lohen has seen Dottore get physical before. Has felt the controlled force of his hand, the way he can make pain into a lesson. Dottore is precise, efficient.
Varka would break him without trying.
The king approaches, and Lohen has to force himself not to back away. His heart is slamming against his ribs like it's trying to escape.
"Lohen." Varka's voice is deep, measured. He doesn't offer his hand immediately, which—Lohen realizes with a start—is probably meant to be merciful. Give him space. Give him time. "It's an honor to finally meet you in person."
Lohen doesn't say anything. He can't quite make his mouth work. Varka is looking at him with an expression that might be gentleness, but all Lohen can see is the scar on Varka's cheekbone, the way his hand rests casually near his sword hilt, everything that speaks to violence and capability and Lohen's complete inability to resist.
"You're frightened," Varka observes. He says it like a fact, not an accusation. "I understand. This is certainly an unusual arrangement."
Unusual. Right. That's one word for it.
Varka shifts his weight, and Lohen flinches. He sees it register—a flicker of something in those pale eyes—but the king just lowers himself onto a nearby bench with careful deliberation, making himself smaller, less imposing. It doesn't really work. Nothing could make Varka less terrifying.
"I've brought you something," Varka says, and produces a small box from his jacket. He doesn't extend it toward Lohen, just sets it on the bench beside him. An offering, not a demand. "A gift. For your family, if you'd like, or for yourself. Whatever you prefer."
Lohen doesn't look at it. He doesn't look at much of anything.
"I want to be honest with you," Varka continues, his tone taking on something almost conversational, as if they're having a normal conversation and not negotiating the terms of Lohen's captivity. "I know this isn't what you want. I know you would choose differently if you could. I won't pretend otherwise or ask you to pretend for my sake."
It's a strange thing to say. Worse than condescension, somehow, because it's true.
"But we're bound now, you and I. By our nations, by circumstance, by necessity." Varka pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. "I intend to be gentle with you, if you'll let me. To give you as much freedom as I can. I won't lie to you and say there aren't expectations. There are, but I won't be cruel."
Lohen's eyes burn. He blinks hard, refuses to let anything fall. He won't give Varka the satisfaction.
"Your hand," Varka says quietly. "May I?"
Lohen should say no. Should pull away. Instead, he finds himself extending his hand with the numb obedience of someone who has learned the cost of refusal.
Varka takes it gently—so gently—and brings it to his lips. It's a courtly gesture, something out of romantic tales, and it feels obscene. Lohen's skin crawls and yet he's frozen, unable to move, watching this massive man treat his hand like something precious.
"I'll make this as good as I can," Varka says against his knuckles. "I promise you that."
Lohen pulls his hand back, tucks it against his chest like he can protect it. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. He realizes, in the sick clarity of this moment, that nothing will ever help again.
"There's no need for an extended courtship if you're not comfortable," Varka continues. He's looking at the flowers now, giving Lohen the gift of not being directly observed. "But I'd like to see you again. Get to know you. Not as a king and his bride, necessarily, but as people."
People. Lohen has never been a person to Dottore. He's been an asset, a tool, a project. The idea that Varka might see him as one is almost laughable.
"You can refuse to see me," Varka adds, and somehow that's the cruelest thing he could say, because they both know it's not true. "But I hope you won't."
Lohen's hands shake. He clasps them together. Varka notices—of course he notices—but he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he stands, moves away with the same careful grace he used to sit, giving Lohen space to breathe.
"The box has a blade," Varka says as he's leaving. "I thought you might appreciate that. Something with weight. Something that's yours." He pauses, glances back. "I'll send word about our next meeting. Take care of yourself, Lohen."
He leaves. Just like that, he leaves, and Lohen is alone among the flowering trees with a small box and the certain knowledge that his life has fundamentally changed into something he can't fight, can't escape, can only endure.
He doesn't open the box for another hour. When he finally does, there's a knife inside—beautiful, deadly, perfectly weighted. The kind of blade a fighter would appreciate. The kind of gift a man gives when he wants to say: I intend to keep you.
Lohen sits in the garden as the sun sets, holding the knife, and realizes that gentleness might be the worst cage of all.
《~~》
The next three months pass in a blur of preparations.
Dottore arranges everything with his characteristic attention to detail—a wedding outfit tailored to Lohen's precise measurements, a wardrobe appropriate for a royal consort, lessons on Mondstadt customs and proper court behavior. None of it feels real, like he's watching it happen to someone else through a glass mirror.
Varka sends gifts, letters. Small courting gestures that blur the line between kind and controlling. A cloak dyed to match Lohen's eyes. A book on Mondstadt poetry. A pair of gloves lined with fur from some rare animal, soft enough to make Lohen's throat tight.
Each one arrives with the same message, in Varka's careful script: For you. I look forward to seeing you soon.
Lohen keeps them all. He doesn't know why.
The night before he's to depart Snezhnaya, he sits alone in his room—not a cell, never a cell, just a beautiful suite that's been his entire world—and holds the knife Varka gave him. He tests the edge against his thumb, watches the line of blood well up.
Sharp. Perfect.
He thinks about running. Thinks about fighting. Thinks about stepping off a tower and taking control of something, anything, in his life.
Instead, he washes the blood away, places the knife on the nightstand, and lies down to wait for morning.