Chapter Text
Lohen rarely bothers with paperwork, and this reminds him exactly why. He taps a finger against the table. He'd be bouncing a leg if the table weren't so low. There's an ache against his knee from his previous attempts. The gum in his mouth is over-chewed.
He barely holds back from kicking down on the offending wooden surface.
There's truly nothing else to do: no camps to clear, no adventurers to help out, no nothing. He was also explicitly told by Varka to give his company subordinates a rest, at least until Captain Anselm gets back from Nod-Krai, which should be any day now.
So no one to terrorize—well, train. Same difference.
Lohen lets out a loud huff in the office that feels foreign to him, as it should. He thinks he can count the number of times he's been in here on one hand. Maybe half of the other.
The text on the folder swims in front of his eyes, even if it's only midday. He stands, then sits back down. Then stands up again. The courtyard isn't free right now either, to his knowledge. New recruits to drill, or something. He heard Miss Noelle was a part of that group, good for her.
He tries to look back down at the document again. What is it even talking about? Shipments between Liyue and Dornman Port? Why is this in his assigned pile? …Oh, it's about ranged weapons. Figures.
He can't wait for Anselm to get back, truly.
Lohen gets the acute feeling of needing to bang his head against the walls.
"I swear to Barbatos…" he grits his teeth. It's too fucking quiet in here. Was HQ always like this?
Lohen skims a revision across the paper, half bending over the desk like a maniac. All the numbers look good, no discrepancies, trustworthy sources, yep, this is fine. He stamps the Favonius crest at the bottom.
Into the finished pile it goes. Lohen sits back, then, and eyes the difference between what he has left and the finished stuff. Pretty equal. He'll still be here for a while, then.
He lets out a long, suffering sigh, plucking the next one. Nod-Krai related. Hm.
Lohen sets the official papers down, and plucks out the thin letters he keeps in his cloak's inner pocket. Short, sweet missives sent over by his one and only nightingale.
The most recent one is from exactly six days ago. The usual delay is just over a week, and he has four of these little letters.
He truly never thought he'd admit to finally seeing the appeal to such long distance communication.
He's been conditioned, he notes, chuckling as he flips through the neatly folded notes. Only his birdie could do that. Lohen fiddles with them, mind faraway and occupied with blue-red eyes, and that silver flash of hair, and…
Someone knocks on the office door, breaking him out of his very nice reverie.
"What is it?" he calls out irritatedly.
"Come on, is that how you greet your Grand Master?" Varka's amused voice gets muffled through the door.
"When he assigns me mountains of office work, yeah!"
Lohen throws the door open, finding Varka leaning in the doorframe, smirk on his lips. Annoying ass that he is.
"Well?" Lohen emphasises, crossing his arms, "Whaddya want?"
"Can't check on my favourite Vice Captain, now?"
Lohen narrows his eyes up at the blond, sarcastic smile in place, "I'm doing miserable, thanks for asking! Please leave so I can get this done quicker and get out of this stuffy, insufferable–"
He cuts himself off solely out of the remaining dregs of politeness left in the pits of his stomach. He hopes Varka appreciates that he's holding off on the cussing.
"You can take breaks, you know," the bigger man reminds him, grinning good-naturedly.
"This is a break, to me," Lohen says, raising an eyebrow, and gesturing vaguely at the situation, "If I take a real break away from this office right now, I am never coming back for at least four business days, you know that, Varka."
"Eeh," the Grand Master waves the remark away, "That paperwork isn't urgent, anyway. It's just that there really is nothing else to do."
"Oh, don't you know me, Grand Master?" Lohen's eyes turn up in crescents, "I'd rather do anything else than sit here for hours. I can even make shit up to occupy myself! Oops."
The swear slips unbidden. Varka barks a laugh.
"Well, sounds like you have it planned, then! Leave the paperwork on your desk, I'll take care of it."
"Hah?" Lohen drawls out.
Confusion surfaces lazily—he knows fully well Varka doesn't like office work just as much as he does. Hate is a strong word to use, so he doesn't. It's still a duty that needs to be checked off, that they both put off for different reasons.
Besides that, he can literally see the dark circles under the man's eyes, and the stance he has leaning against the frame is nothing short of unsteady. He's doing his best to mask it, but Lohen is more observant than anyone gives him credit for.
Varka probably pulled all-nighters again after putting things off.
"You're about to drop dead, aren't ya?" is all he asks before moving to close the door, "I can handle a few more hours of this, so shove off."
"You need fresh air, Lohen," the Grand Master insists, holding the door back.
"Oh, look who's talking," Lohen snaps, "I've been in here a few hours, you haven't been seen for two whole days. I can smash a window, worst case~!"
Varka sighs, "No convincing you, is there? Alright, well! Oh, Anselm's arriving tomorrow, by the way. Got the news earlier."
"Thank Barbatos for that," Lohen mutters audibly, uncaring for the lack of filter.
"I'm off to take a nap, then!" Varka chuckles, punching his chest and mock saluting him.
There a grateful undertone somewhere, but Lohen can't be bothered to fish it out or answer it. He gives an aborted wave as Varka turns and makes his way down the hall.
Alright, break's over.
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"–tain? Captain!"
A ringing echoes in his ears, and in his head. It hurts a lot, but is somewhat numbed, like his body is used to it. He sits up, slowly and painstakingly.
"Illuga, oh, thank Solovei. Don't overexert yourself, now."
'Illuga'. His name? Yes, that's his name. And who is the man who just kneeled down at his bedside? He feels like he should recognise the scraggly black locks, scruffy beard and wrinkled blue eyes.
He frowns, and it sends another flash of pain. There's some excited overlap of voices in the back. Or outside? He can't tell. What happened? What's going on?
Is someone hurt? Did someone die again?
Someone laughs softly nearby. Did he say that out loud?
"That's my Illuga," the man laughs tearfully.
For some reason, his tears upset Illuga deeply. And for some reason, he's nearly certain that this man's heart will break further if he admits that he doesn't know who anyone here is.
He sees faces that are strangers. But judging by the looks on their faces, they shouldn't be.
Who am I?
No, not that. 'Was' is a better word, probably. Who he is right now is nothing but a blank slate. He grasps at straws, anything to try and remember the littlest thing. What did he last eat? When did he last eat, actually?
He carefully asks the question.
"Hungry, huh?" the bearded man asks, "Don't worry, Radoslaw's working on a diet. You took quite the fall."
Illuga stares.
He doesn't know who that is. He bites the inside of his cheek to refrain from letting his confusion slip. It's fine. He knows these people—that's what his instinct is telling him. He's safe with them.
"How long was I out?" he opts to ask instead.
The man sighs, sitting back down properly on the chair, "About a day and a half. We were expecting longer, honestly."
"Was it that bad?"
Even as he asks this, his head tells him yes. He touches around for the bandages wrapped around his temples, and feels the fragility of his nerves around there.
"I thought I'd lost you."
It should be a heartfelt confession. It's not received as such. Illuga distinctly feels horrible about everything.
"I… " he searches for a way to spell it out carefully. "I don't remember much."
"That's to be expected," a younger woman says, "Heavy head trauma might temporarily block out the memories of the triggering incident. You'll be alright after some rest, Captain."
Illuga shakes his head, but immediately stops when that worsens the ringing. "No, I–"
He stops. Why is there a lump in his throat?
"I don't…I can barely remember anything."
There's a pause in the air. Tension thickens.
"What do you mean?" the bearded man asks slowly, sounding exactly like he's dreading the answer.
Illuga looses himself in his mental state. It's like floating in pure darkness, untethered, with the occasional scrap of information passing by. Scraps that don't remotely mean anything on their own.
"I…"
How to begin putting this feeling into words?
He glances up again. He unwittingly glances directly into the man's cerulean blue eyes, swimming with shimmers of worry.
He's seen those eyes before.
"Pops…?"
It slips from his mouth.
And he's immediately embraced into a warm, all-encompassing hug. It tugs at his heart. He lets the tears building at his eyes fall, and he hugs his father back.
All he knows for sure, in this moment, is that this man would do anything to keep him safe and comfortable.
"Pops," Illuga repeats with a wobbly tone, distinctly aware he should feel more accomplishment at remembering the most important person in his life.
His dad lets him dry his tears into the collar of his coat without complaint.
"Do you remember anything else?"
"Mmf," Illuga tries to think. It's too monumental of a task.
It's a lot of murkiness, blurry faces, and jumbled letters. There's the face of his father, that he now knows but still can't associate with anything. No happy memories. No arbitrary moment with his parental figure that might've stuck with him.
It scares him. This can't be permanent.
He also vaguely recalls the face of the tall, pale Lightkeeper with the long blue hair hovering around the door, without the name. They'd been close, right?
'Bjorn' is a name that comes up, but he can't see anyone that feels familiar with the name. An overwhelming sense of loss takes ahold of him—he can't tell if it was the name, or the reminder that this is how he must live now. By halves.
It can't be permanent.
He hopes the gaping maw where his memories used to be can piece itself back together. Will it ever?
A sad chirp comes from his left, and he looks down to see a golden bird, infused with some warm energy that feels tethered to him.
A whisper slips, a sliver of recognition catching, "…birdie."
"Illuga," his pops starts, "Don't tell me you… "
Illuga vehemently shakes his head again, gritting through the pain, "No, no, not… umm," he tries willing the name to pop in, to no avail. "I'm sorry, but not…" he takes a breath, "Not you."
The bird trills, a bit downtrodden. Illuga swallows the guilt. Maybe the little light-creature's name will come unbidden to him sometime soon.
Illuga ploughs on, worried he might forget this thought too. "Someone… someone calls me 'birdie'. Who…is it?"
He clenches a fist into the covers. He hates this helplessness. At least he knows that much.
"I think it was Sir Lohen, from the Favonius expeditionary force?" someone offers. It's a smooth voice, and he likes it. He doesn't know who it is.
'Lohen'. That doesn't tell him anything. It should.
He panics a little.
"Lohen…" he breathes a little quicker, "Can I see him? Please?"
There's a a mix of pity and comfort hanging in the air. He hates all of it. He doesn't need it. It won't help his circumstance.
"Of course. We'll send for him."
He doesn't even have a face in mind to associate with the name. Only a voice, and a nickname. That has to count for something, at least right?
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Lohen clicks his tongue at the mail pile in the library, like his irritation will materialise what he's looking for.
No letter directly addressed to him on that specific, Nod-Krai brand of paper that's slightly paler than the kind Mondstadt uses. Not even a note.
It's been ten days, since the last one. Or eleven, maybe. He made good on that promise and took four days to tour around the Whispering Woods, Thousand Winds Temple, and Windrise for any semblance of entertainment—well, fights.
Lohen privately thought they'd established a routine. Illuga wouldn't miss the date like this, unless something happened. Is it still too soon to think that?
Why is he so hung up on this, anyway? Illuga's a busy little bee. He'll send the letter when he sends the letter. Lohen steps out of the mail room, a wave of vague annoyance washing over him despite his self-comforting thoughts.
And to think he was looking forward to writing a reply back.
The horror!
He chuckles to himself, then, imagining exactly what Illuga might be saying to that thought. He leaves HQ, counting on coming back tomorrow to check again. (And maybe then, he'll really start getting serious about the delay.)
He does visit again, and this time, there is a letter addressed to him. Except it isn't sealed nor folded the singular way Illuga does it.
It also has the official Lightkeeper's seal.
Lohen stares down at the offending piece of paper. What are the chances this work-related? Varka did say that the Lightkeepers would send regular updates about the healing progress from the Wild Hunt.
But why send one directly to him?
He sighs, and peels it open, walking through the quiet main hall of HQ. His heels shuffle against the ceramic floors as he begins reading.
Maybe there's no need to—
Sir Lohen,
May this letter find you in good health.
I will get directly to the point: I am aware that this is very short notice, but would you be amenable to visiting Piramida for an undetermined amount of time?
Illuga woke up from an accident on duty, and got diagnosed with post-traumatic amnesia. It's been a couple of days, and he doesn't seem to be getting better as quickly as we had hoped. He keeps asking for you, and far be it from me to see him in such anguish any longer.
Amnesia is a tricky thing. Maybe seeing you will help, maybe it won't. And even if it does, it will likely take time. I know you two were close, so please consider the proposition.
All the best,
Starshyna Nikita
Lohen's insides turn to ice halfway through his reading. The silence around him is suffocating.
He needs to leave, now.
It'll take, at the quickest, four days for him to reach Nod-Krai, if he sleeps minimally and doesn't run into any trouble. He can't imagine how Illuga might be feeling right now, but he needs him, so he's going.
And no one can stop him.
Varka has the morning off, so Lohen makes a single detour to Anselm's office. Predictably, his Captain is there, shuffling through folders and paperwork.
"Vice Captain," the man nods at him. "Anything I can do for you?"
Lohen stays on the threshold, poised to leave. "Let the Grand Master know I'm going to Nod-Krai."
Anselm furrows his eyebrows, crossing his fingers together on the desk. "…Excuse me?"
"Ya heard me," Lohen hisses, "I'm leaving. Don't expect me back anytime soon."
"Why are you–?"
Lohen scowls fiercely, interrupting his superior.
"Personal business, alright? Let Varka know I'll send update letters!" With that, he closes the door of the office he'd briefly occupied, and sets out.
He still doesn't know what he'll do once he gets there. He just knows that he needs to be at Illuga's side.
Right. Now.
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"He what?!"
Varka pinches at the bridge of his nose, and Anselm joins him in their shared misery. Of all the things he has to hear first back from his short time off…
"Did he mention why, at least?"
The head shake he receives as an answer makes him sigh heavily. Probably just another spontaneous solo expedition, then. Lohen tends to engage in those a lot.
Well, he's never headed alone for Nod-Krai before; solely because no one in their right minds would try to do that without any kind of back up team.
…Except for him, of course.
"Should I send men after him?" Anselm asks, resigned.
Varka considers that. "How many hours has it been since he left?"
"He told me to notify you at around ten in the morning, sir."
It's three in the afternoon. Lohen is long gone, no doubt. Varka waves a hand, "No one's catching up to him, at any pace. You said he looked worried?"
"As worried as he could express, when I tried to press him for any kind of details," Anselm says dryly.
At that, Varka knows the younger Knight probably flashed his own Captain that famous, murderous glare. He chuckles a little.
He won't deny being a little worried for the Knight. The path to Nod-Krai isn't short, and it isn't just some walk in the park. It's no longer as dangerous as it once was, though.
And Lohen is, well, Lohen.
So no, Varka isn't that worried.
He knows that the Vice-Captain will come back eventually. But no one can keep him from chasing whatever gets him fired up, once he's found it. Varka just hopes that the Vice Captain will keep himself safe.
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Illuga is finally cleared by the main doctor (Radoslaw, his name was?) to move back into his own quarters. His head is. feeling much better, and his body no longer feels as fragile when he moves around.
The same cannot be said of his memory, as patchy as the first day he woke.
The single-room facility he stands in is entirely foreign to him.
He finds some books, with titles that seem interesting, that nag at the back of his head. But those books aren't his. They belong to the Illuga from 'before'.
He doesn't know if he'll ever become that person again.
Flins—the tall, charismatic Lightkeeper from before—was kind enough to tell him some things he'd done when he asked. The man seemed sad, throughout the retelling of his stories.
Illuga nearly forgot that those stories were about him. They didn't really seem real.
He even jokingly jabbed at Flins for this, mentioning that he seems the type to embellish, but the man withdrew even more after that remark.
Illuga can't fault him for that. He has no clue what his past self was like. Maybe that wasn't the kind of remark he'd make.
Everything is in past tense, and he hates it.
Someone got ingredients for him, that he finds in his cupboards and cold storage. He plays around with the vegetables, wondering if he should blindside himself by cooking.
Does he even remember how to cook?
It turns out that yes, he does.
His memory is very strangely patched. It's mostly people and events that happened over his lifetime that are missing. He remembers how to cook, to spar—one of his apparent subordinates asked him about it.
He is very glad he can still hold his polearm correctly. It fits like a glove in his hand. Fighting footwork is like a dance that's drilled into his muscles.
It's one of the few things that isn't entirely alien to him. Illuga isn't sure why, but it's a huge comfort.
He can still fight.
He's still useful.
The soup he's making is simmering nicely, the chunks of carrot, onion, and potato soaking up the flavour he mixed in half-consciously.
It smells good, at least.
He debates bringing a bowl to his old man. Nikita (he finally remembered his name, thank the moon) has been understandably emotionally fraught, what with Illuga's state of being.
Piramida's medic team is assuring both son and father that this is just temporary, simple case of post-traumatic amnesia.
Other Lightkeepers have gotten this before.
That fact gnaws at Illuga. Others have suffered this before. He should've remembered. He wouldn't wish this kind of life on anyone. Isn't he a captain?
He should be better than this. Shouldn't he?
He should've—
The boiling of his soup gets a little too loud, and it snaps him out of the spiralling. The pot should never be heated to a boil for this recipe.
It's supposed to be cooked gently.
He caught it early, so maybe it still tastes as it should. He wouldn't be able to tell. Illuga makes a bowl, eating through it without registering much.
Isn't familiar food supposed to trigger something, at least?
It tastes great, at the very least.
Or maybe that's just due to the fact that he was on a strict, specific and repetitive diet for the past week. Doctor's orders.
He recognises that it's sort of depressing, eating alone in this house that he doesn't feel anything for, but his squad has returned to Cliffwatch Camp without him.
He felt bad, sending the Nightmare Orioles off from his bed in the infirmary. Each and every one of them assured him that they'd be alright. That they can manage without him, especially with the Wild Hunt dying down recently.
But what if something else happens? (Like whatever happened to him.)
He might not feel the attachment that he's supposed to, that he knows should be there, but he can be aware of the responsibility he holds, as a squad captain. Regrettably, he's stuck here.
You can't do anything.
Illuga sets down the bowl with a small slam. He swears he hears a knock at the same time.
Taking no chances, he heads for the door despite having no recollection of an appointment of some kind with anyone. Ivar said earlier that he'd drop by tomorrow, to check on him, so it can't be him.
Old man Nikita is busy at Nasha Town. Sir Flins is keeping watch on his island cemetery. That should be everyone he's aware of.
He opens the door.
A man, dressed in an entirely different aesthetic than any Ratnik stands before him, in royal blues and blacks and whites and dull gold. His eyes are probably the most striking feature about him; Illuga feels like he's staring into the bottoms of the abyss.
The man's stance, despite his general air of nonchalance, suggests that he's tired out. Illuga's brow tilts. Who is—
"Birdie?"
The man seems hesitant, unsure. He's chewing on...gum?
Illuga knows only one person calls him that, from everything he has remembered. And Illuga knows that's not how he usually acts. The certainty of this knowledge shakes him.
It's not over just yet.
Hope blooms within him, as surely as the sun is setting.
"Lohen?"