Archive of Our Own ^beta

1:

Flins is avoiding him.

At first, Illuga thinks he’s being paranoid— too many late nights writing reports, too much time spent battling the Wild Hunt. It’s the sort of tedium/life-threatening-bullshit that wears on the mind, after a while.

But no, he confirms after Flins abruptly makes an exit from the room he’d just entered. Flins is actively working to avoid him.

Which is nothing short of hysterical, considering it’s not a hard thing to do subtly— Flins spends so much of his time isolated in his lighthouse; surely, if he wished to avoid Illuga, he wouldn’t make the trek all the way out to Piramida, would he? There wasn’t even a meeting or conference to demand his presence.

He can’t quite explain the hurt that follows.

Illuga runs through the list in his head as he speed-walks through Piramida. The last supply run had gone well— he’d arrived well on-time, stayed for a glass of water or 10 (with the way Flins insisted on hydration Illuga’s half-convinced he doesn’t actually understand how it works, only that it’s a necessity—) and listened intently as Flins wove stories for him. He’d even gone as far as to indulge some of Illuga’s own questions— things about his many collections, the stones, rocks, and bones.

Illuga had thought it had gone well. So why was Flins being so strange—

“Fuck— Aedon!” he yelps, arms coming up to cradle his head when his familiar, fed up with his melancholia, manifests next to him and bites at his ear. For all the Geo construct is supposedly under Illuga’s own control, it sure as shit seems to have a mind of its own. “Alright, alright, ow!”

“Do I want to know what you must’ve done to incite such ire, Young Master Illuga, or is that the sort of thing better kept close to the chest?”

Illuga startles, eyes wide as Flins— the very man who’d been avoiding Illuga not ten minutes ago— falls in line a few paces away from him, a mildly curious look on his face. There’s a half-smile making his lips twitch at the corners, and Illuga flushes when Aedon goes in for another swipe.

Because this is what he needs, yes. Flins seeing him being attacked by his own bird.

“Sir Flins— Aedon, enough— no, I didn’t—”

Aedon seizes ahold of a lock of his hair and pulls.

“Jebao sam ti majku— Aedon, that hurts!”

He bats the bird away, who disappears back into his lantern with a caw. Illuga wastes precious time checking for a bald spot when he registers Flins’ laughter, and promptly goes crimson.

“The mouth on you!” Flins exclaims. “Why, I’ve heard sailors with cleaner vocabularies!”

“Don’t tell Nikita,” Illuga whines. Flins sounds delighted, though, which is half the problem— Illuga has learned over the years that Flins’ delight often leads to mischief, usually at Illuga’s own expense. “He’s being trying so hard to get me to stop; he’ll lose his mind if he hears—” He pauses, and blinks owlishly at the space between them— at the ‘giant fucking gap,’ if he wanted to be crass— which he’s somehow only noticing now. “Sir Flins.”

“Young Master.”

“Wh-Why are you all the way over there…?”

Flins quirks a brow at him. “Should you like me to be closer, Young Master?”

Illuga’s face flames red. “Stop that,” he scolds, and Flins’ grin widens. Cheeky bastard. He thinks sometimes that Flins likes teasing him more than he likes breathing, God help him— “You’re like a solid three feet away, what…?”

He’s more puzzled than insecure in that moment— Flins’ behaviour, as usual, makes little to no sense— but the outright acknowledgement of the other ratnik’s distance causes his worries to rear their heads again. Had he done something to offend the other? Illuga doesn’t remember doing anything of the sort, but then again, these things can be quite arbitrary, sometimes…

Flins just smiles patiently at him, and clasps his hands together at his back. “Perhaps I am merely looking to avoid Aedon’s… hospitality,” he says smoothly. “I am rather fond of my hair where it is, you know.”

Given that Illuga’s scalp still stings from where Aedon tried to rip out his hair, Flins is smart for that. However, there’s something… not quite right about his statement, for all Illuga can tell it’s the truth. It feels like Flins is hiding something.

“Careful, Young Master. If you frown too much, your face will get stuck like that, you know. Alternatively, perhaps Aedon will try to rectify it themself.”

Illuga flinches at the mere thought. “You’re awful cruel for suggesting such things, Sir Flins.”

“Me? Cruel? Why, you wound me, Young Master Illuga.”

Illuga doesn’t dignify that with a response. “What brought you to Piramida, Sir Flins?” he asks finally, and Flins’ smile takes on a bemused edge as he tilts his head to the side.

“I had some… urgent business to attend to,” he says, after a pause, “though it seems I’ve run into quite the roadblock, as it were.”

Illuga frowns. “Roadblock? Are you alright?”

“I’m quite unharmed,” Flins promises, and scrutinizes Illuga closely, as if he’s looking for something. Whatever it is, he must have found it, because his smile widens. “Truth be told, I find myself rather amused by this turn of events.”

“Amused?” Illuga is so hopelessly lost. “By what?”

Flins merely hums and lists back and forth a little, swaying gently in an imaginary breeze, and Illuga resits the urge to sigh. Why does every conversation with Flins feel like walking blind through a hurricane? Further still, why does he actively look forward to it?

Perhaps he’d taken too many hits to the head in his youth, he reflects. Yes, that has to be it— brain damage. It would explain everything.

“Are you headed back to the lighthouse?” Illuga asks. He’s headed in that general direction regardless— his pockets are full of mail that needs to be delivered— but if Flins is headed the same way, then they can share a boat. “I have— letters, that need be mailed…”

He trails off. They’ve turned a corner, and like this he can better see the lantern on Flins’ hip— more accurately, he can see that the gentle blue flames within are a blaring, blazing red, sparking and flaring like they do when the Wild Hunt is near. It means danger, in a word, and instantly Illuga is on high alert.

Flins notices, because of course he does. “Illuga?” he asks, and it says volumes that he’s forgone the honorific, but then and there Illuga’s too distracted to care. “What’s wrong—”

“Your lantern,” Illuga blurts, and stops short. He’s tempted to pull out his polearm, but he doesn’t want to cause undue panic before he knows what’s wrong, so he tugs on the tether that connects him to Aedon, and in an instant the bird is manifest, perched on his shoulder as it surveys the surrounding area with uncanny, intelligent eyes. “It’s— It’s flashing bright red, something— something is wrong—”

“Oh,” Flins says, and Illuga can’t place why he sounds so relieved. “Oh, that. That— That is… quite inconsequential. You needn’t worry.”

“Needn’t worry? Sir Flins, all due respect but—”

He stops short. Flins is blushing. Not by much; as with everything to do with Flins it’s subtle, but it’s certainly there: a light pink flush, turning his cheeks and ears red.

“Sir Flins…?”

Illuga almost can’t make sense of what he’s seeing. Is Flins embarrassed? Honest to God, he hadn’t thought he’d possessed the ability, but no, here he is, clear as day— that is definitely embarrassment written on his face. Illuga’s a little abashed to admit he finds the sight charming.

He stares his fill, mesmerized, and ignores Aedon, who’s begun to pick at his collar for some reason.

“’Tis merely a… an over-zealous reaction, Young Master; nothing to be worried about,” Flins demurs, and takes two steps back. Fascinatingly, his lantern almost immediately fades back to its usual gentle blue and purple. “Perhaps I shall… linger overlong in turn.”

Illuga tilts his head to the side. “Get it looked at,” he says at length. He doesn’t need to explain why: a ratnik’s good as dead if their lantern fails them. “And let me know if anything’s wrong— Aedon, for fuck’s sake,” he explodes, and whirls around to shoo the bird away. “What are you doing—”

Flins laughs politely, and Illuga flushes crimson. He can feel his reputation going down the drain, and silently mourns it. “I’ll leave you and Master Aedon to sort your differences,” he says blithely, then turns and melts into the crowd, humming a strange, otherworldly tune as he does.

Illuga watches him for a moment, then yelps when Aedon grabs ahold of his shirt collar in its beak. “Aedon! Just stop it, what are you—”

He freezes, then, trembling, reaches behind him to grasp at that same collar, hoping against hope that he’s wrong. Because really, that would— that would really do a number on Flins’ impression of him, if he’s right, and he can’t— Illuga can’t have that, not after everything—

“Motherfucker,” he curses, and feels more of his reputation swirl down the drain. “Aedon, if you see me leave my house with my shirt inside-out, let me know before I make a fool of myself in front of senior ratniki?”

Aedon only caws once, and disappears back into Illuga’s lantern.

2:

Illuga sees Flins again five days later, as they’re scouting out Ashveil Peak— it’s been quiet (well, quiet-er than usual) since the Traveller inflicted their presence upon the place, but it’s still a hotspot of Wild Hunt activity, so they need to go up to take care of things, occasionally.

There’s not much to see, honestly, which buoys Illuga’s spirits— he’s not stupid enough to believe that the Wild Hunt will ever truly be eradicated, at least not in his lifetime, but seeing the landscape barren of pink-purple abyssal energy makes it easier to breathe.

He listens with one ear as Flins narrates a story from Old Snezhnaya, about nobles and treacherous courts, insidious schemes and clever words. He’s helpless to not pay attention; there’s something about Flins’ voice, low and melodious, that has him helplessly entrapped, but as such he realizes a half-second before Flins suddenly cuts himself off that something’s wrong.

He’s barely asked “what?” when the ground beneath them gives an ominous crack before shattering apart, and both he and Flins tumble through the air.

He’s aware vaguely of Flins next to him; hears him curse violently in another language before he grabs ahold of Illuga by his coat and pulls him close, crushing him against his chest as the ground approaches faster, and faster—

They land with a THUD, hard against the unforgiving ground, and Flins has Illuga cradled against him like he’s worried about him, but he’s not the one who just fell a solid 15 feet and then landed with another human being on top of him—

Illuga sits bolt upright, eyes wide with alarm as he frantically checks Flins for injuries. “Are you alright?” he hisses, gently palpitating Flins’ torso, arms, and shoulders for injuries.  Everything seems fine, but Illuga knows the other ratnik can be sneaky with injuries when he wants to be. “Does anywhere hurt? God, Flins—”

Flins laughs wetly. “Young Master’s concern is refreshing,” he murmurs, “but entirely necessary. I am… of hardier stuff than the average human. You need not worry for my health in that regard.”

Illuga doesn’t want to know what sort of expression must have been written on his face for Flins to so casually reveal something like that about himself— what must he look like, if Flins weighed the knowledge against Illuga’s panic and thought it a worthy sacrifice?

Unsteady, he clambers off of the other ratnik and offers him a hand, pulling him to his feet. “Is your… lantern alright?” he asks hesitantly. He’s seen the subtle, protective way Flins cares for it. He’s not entirely certain that it really is a lantern, at the end of the day; it just seems a little… lacking, of a title. He’s certain that there’s more to it than that.

“Perhaps a little scratched up, but merely superficial,” Flins answers after a moment. “It adds character, don’t you think?”

Illuga doesn’t quite know how to answer that, and directs his attention upwards. He can see the sky, this brilliant patch of blue high above his head through the hole that they’d fallen through, and he speaks without meaning to: “There’s no way in hell we’re climbing out of here.”

Flins huffs a laugh. “What would Master Nikita say, were he to hear your foul mouth…”

Illuga’s cheeks flare red. “Come on! That one wasn’t even that bad…” He trails off, then sighs and reaches for his own lantern. It’s not quite as sturdy as Flins’; he’s quite certain Flins could go around hitting people with his if he ever tired of his polearm, but it’s held up remarkably well against the fall: Illuga only has to hit it a few times before the light sputters on.

Flins nods approvingly. “Percussive maintenance. A fine choice, Young Master Illuga.”

Illuga scowls off to the side, blush increasing in intensity. “Stop calling me that,” he mutters, and raises his lantern against the gloom they find themselves ensconced in. A moment passes before the warm yellow glow is met by a sinister purple-blue, and Illuga can finally see the cavern he’d fallen into.

“It’s— this used to be a building,” he says, surprised. There’s half-collapsed columns against the walls, and the hard ground was hard because it was tiled, these beautiful, dusty things with intricate patterns painted onto them. Much of the grandeur of the place has long been lost to time, but even like this, Illuga can imagine the splendour it once had.

Flins doesn’t seem to share his feelings, though; on the contrary he seems almost wary about what they’ve found. “A place for revelry,” he murmurs, and kneels down to pick something up from the ground. It’s an old goblet, tarnished silver, but Flins holds it out of reach when Illuga reaches for it.

“Better not to, Young Master,” he says. “Precious items… well. Oftentimes, they only look precious. All the better to lure unsuspecting persons in, hmm?”

Illuga’s heart jumps in his chest. “Do you think it’s cursed?”

“I’m not sure,” Flins admits, and sets the goblet back down on the floor, precisely where it had been before. “I would advise against moving anything from its final resting place, Young Master Illuga. These things…” He wets his lips. “Better still to leave them as if they had never been disturbed, mm?”

Illuga has no words to explain how much that notion disturbs him.

Flins hefts his lantern higher. “Ah,” he says, and points out a darker tunnel leading out of the main cavern-room. Illuga had missed it when they’d first fallen in. “I believe I see our way out.”

Illuga’s breath stutters in his chest. “You’re not— worried about it collapsing?”

Flins raises an eyebrow at him. “Should I be?” He eyes the Moonwheel on Illuga’s belt. “I have faith that the Young Master would circumvent such an event before it came to pass.”

Illuga’s eye twitches. “You are far too cavalier with your safety, Sir Flins,” he says, which for some reason just makes Flins smile.

Illuga heads into the tunnel.

Pretty soon, he can tell his worries were unfounded— there’s solid brick lining the walls, old wrought stonework that keeps the place intact, and before long they’ve spilled out into another room, even more grandiose than the first.

It seems to be a ballroom, actually. “This reminds me of your stories, Sir Flins,” he says, striding forward to examine the murals on the walls. They paint a fascinating picture— in one, two figures stand side-by-side, looking out over a group of people. In the next, however, they both have their swords drawn, and seem to be doing their level best to kill each other.

The third mural is lost, though— the wall has collapsed, crumbled into its component parts, and with it, the ending to the story.

Flins comes up beside him, and somehow, Illuga isn’t surprised to hear him continue the tale: “Belyi Tsar,” he says, voice unsteady in a way that Illuga has never heard from him. “The King of Winter Holly. That… That is his younger brother, the King of Summer Oak.”

He points to each of the figures as he explains, and Illuga finds himself helpless to resist his questions: “What happened to them?”

He recognizes the name— ‘Belyi Tsar,’ the first Cryo Archon. Flins has mentioned him before: he features quite prominently in the older ratnik’s stories.

This one, though, Illuga is unfamiliar with.

Flins inhales shakily. “The two brothers loved each other greatly,” he says. “However, a… a quarrel caused the Belyi Tsar to lose sight of that which was truly important. In the midst of his rage, he murdered his little brother.”

Illuga feels cold from the inside-out.

Flins moves on from the mural. “In the greatest throes of the depression that followed, the Belyi Tsar froze much of Snezhnaya, encasing it within an everwinter— a fimbulvetr, if you will.” A pause. “His heart never thawed.”

“Stop,” Illuga says quietly. Normally, he loves to hear Flins’ stories— sits on the edge of his seat, desperate to hear more even as the hour grows late and the moon grows high. But now, hearing him speak of such a tragic fate with a distant, flat voice, as if he were not 100% sure he was doing it— Illuga couldn’t bear it.

Flins blinks, then seems to come back to himself. “I apologize.”

“Don’t apologize,” Illuga says. “Just— let’s move on.”

They enter an adjoining room that Illuga immediately recognizes as a kitchen. There’s still old pots and pans lining the shelves, even as some of them have come unbolted and fallen to the floor; a cauldron way on the other side of the room, half-overbalanced and lying on its side, and Illuga pauses to stare his fill at the snapshot in time, absolutely mesmerized.

He hears Flins chuckle from somewhere behind him. “One would swear you had never seen a kitchen before, Young Master,” he comments, and Illuga scowls off to the side.

“It’s not every day you find an undisturbed, ancient ruin,” he says. “I’m allowed to find it interesting.”

Flins hides a smile behind his hand. “Certainly, certainly,” he says, soundlessly walking across the room, to where Illuga can see a round, squat sort of door. Flins reaches for the handle. “Truly, remnants of times past do not lose their intrigue so easily—”

Illuga sees it happen in real time. The minute Flins’ hand touches the handle, he yanks it back as if he’d been burned, a high-pitched noise of pain just barely contained in the back of his throat, and then he’s backing away almost ungracefully, arm clutched against his chest, until he’s next to Illuga again.

His voice is almost fearful when he says: “We can’t go that way.”

“You’re injured,” Illuga says immediately, and hates that he didn’t notice it sooner. “From the fall, why— why didn’t you tell me—”

“It’s not from the fall,” Flins interrupts. He hasn’t taken his hand away from his chest, still staring straight ahead at the door. “It’s not— we can’t go that way, Master Illuga; we need to find another way—”

“Let me take a look at your hand, first,” Illuga says, because he’s still not convinced that Flins isn’t lying about the origin of this injury, and the two duck back into the grand ballroom with the uncanny mural.

Flins hisses through his teeth as he peels his glove away; Illuga can immediately tell why. The entire surface of his palm is covered in a horrific burn, red and shiny and bleeding in places. Patches of Flins’ skin are peeling and flaking away, and Illuga isn’t convinced that he didn’t take half his palm with him when he took off his glove.

He stares up at him, wide-eyed. “How…?”

Flins looks away.

“An old allergy of mine,” he says quietly. “I am usually more careful to avoid irritants; however, they do occasionally sneak up on me.” He takes a deep breath, as if attempting to self-soothe, and adds: “I’m afraid that exit is blocked off for me.”

He looks back at the entrance to the kitchen, expression unreadable, then sighs and stuffs his glove into one of the many pockets on his coat. “We need to—”

“Let me see your hand?” Illuga says, and he isn’t asking, not really. “Please?”

Flins stares at him for a moment, then hesitantly lets Illuga take his hand.

He begins winding a bandage around it, thanking every god he knew of that he’d had the foresight to bring them. “Sir Flins,” he says quietly. “What sort of allergy causes this severe a reaction?”

Flins sighs very heavily. He seems calmer, now; his breathing is more regulated, but God, does he seem tired.

“An old, ancient one,” he says. “Rest assured, Young Master Illuga, it has posed little to no threat to me in recent years. I was… merely uncareful.”

‘Little to no threat?’ ‘Little to no threat?’ Illuga wants to challenge that, wants to put that notion up against the blistered, burned, ruined flesh of Flins’ palm and ask him to repeat himself. Wants to grab Flins by his shoulders and shake him, because by all accounts he’d been lucky the reaction had only been on his palm, and that’s a poor place to have an injury already. What would he have done if it had been somewhere else? His throat, his eyes?

Illuga takes a deep breath. “Sir Flins,” he says, and holds his injured hand so so carefully between his own. “I really do wish you’d be less dismissive of your own wellbeing.”

Flins stares at him in surprise, at that, as if he hadn’t thought Illuga had noticed. Then, his expression softens, and despite the way it must hurt, he gives Illuga’s hands a gentle squeeze.

“For you, Illuga, I suppose I will make an attempt,” he says, and the— the way he says his name, the way he drops that so-oft used honorific so casually, it has Illuga blushing.

He looks away. “Come on,” he says, and turns to examine the rest of the room. He spots another door on the far side. “Let’s get out of here.”

Finding their way out of the ruins is no walk in the park— several times they need to backtrack and go around because Flins’ allergy flares up again (though, thankfully, there are no new burns for them to contend with— Flins claims to notice when it begins to creep up on him, now that he’s looking for it) but they do find themselves at what passes for the exit, eventually: a break in the stonework, through which a weak light shines through. It spits them out right underneath a waterfall, the likes of which soaks them to the bone in freezing-cold water as they walk out from under it, but truthfully, Illuga is just happy to be out of the underground. Something about the place had set his teeth on edge.

He turns to Flins, who’s absently wringing out his hair with one hand, a perplexed expression on his face, and then he says, words tumbling out of his mouth: “Come back to Piramida.”

Flins pauses. His hair’s a complete mess, plastered to his head, and his bangs are sticking up in every direction. Illuga has to resist the urge to smile when he looks at him: something about Flins’ unkempt appearance, for some reason, charms him.

He carries on speaking: “I want to have your hand looked at.”

“There is— very little need,” Flins says, but Illuga’s not fooled: he’s kept his hand close to his chest the entire time, curled protectively around it. It looks like it hurts. “I confess, there’s— not much that can be done for this particular… affliction, of mine.”

“Still,” Illuga murmurs. “I don’t like the idea of you not having any sort of medical attention at all.”

Flins’ lips quirk at the corners. “Doubt your handiwork?”

“I’m no doctor,” Illuga replies. “Field medicine is one thing, but that’s— that’s a pretty severe burn, Flins.” He hesitates. “I… I trust your judgement, I do, but I don’t— I don’t even know what sort of allergy would cause that, and in such a short amount of time, too…”

He looks up at Flins, silently begging for answers he doesn’t think he’ll get, and Flins looks away.

“Certain… ferrous metals have an adverse effect on me,” he says, at great length. “Living in Nod-Krai, a certain level of exposure is unfortunately unavoidable, but like anything, a tolerance can be built up.” He smiles tiredly. “Still, it’s certainly no walk in the park. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but Final Night Cemetery is… entirely devoid of iron. It is my one concession to myself, as it were.”

Illuga blinks at him. An allergy to iron? It sounds familiar, but he can’t quite place why it rings a bell…

“Still,” he hears himself say. “Come back regardless. Doubtless the old man is going to want to hear your side of the story, and besides, I think he’d come fetch you himself if you just went back to the lighthouse.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across Flins’ face.

“When the Young Master asks so nicely,” he demurs, “how can I refuse?”

3:

Not long after he and Flins find the old ruin and all that comes after it, Illuga finds himself on a small boat, headed to Final Night Cemetery with a packful of supplies in tow.

He supposes that Flins could have picked up that which he needed while he was in Piramida— he could have suggested it, even; the idea did occur to him. But, selfishly, he didn’t want to rid himself of an excuse to see Flins, even if it’s just to deliver supplies, so he’d kept his mouth shut.

This, it turns out, was smart.

Final Night Cemetery always has a curious quiet about it— they say that the dead don’t wake but they do remember, and Illuga has always found that expression a little too apt. The entire island is coated in a faint murmur, dead feet trotting upon dead grass as the dead themselves live out their final moments in perpetuity, but their eyes are always closed.

Dauðirnir vakna eigi en þeir minnask. Illuga thinks he’s seen the phrase written on a tombstone once, and it disquiets him somewhat that he can’t remember where he saw it.

The tiny rowboat bumps against the shore, and Illuga sets about tying it to the old wooden post so that it doesn’t drift away over the course of his stay— Flins would doubtless put him up, but Illuga has no desire to make a fool of himself in front of his coworker— before beginning the trek over to the lighthouse.

It’s odd. The spirits are quieter, much quieter than usual, and it has Illuga checking his 6 far more than he should— part of him wants to summon Aedon, for the company if nothing else, but another, greater part of him, warns him that breaking the preternatural silence would be anything but wise.

He raps thrice upon the door; waits patiently. Flins has downright uncanny hearing— he could be at the very top of the lighthouse, gramophone set to the highest volume, and he’d still hear Illuga like he were right next to him— so it unsettles Illuga when he doesn’t immediately hear footsteps from within.

He bites his lip and tries again, ignoring his growing unease when again, nothing happens. He tries to rationalize it: Flins is a grown man, an accomplished lightkeeper; he’s likely just— out and about. Probably maintaining the graves; Illuga’s seen him do that a fair few times.

But wouldn’t he have seen Flins then, on his way up? Illuga wasn’t exactly distracted; on the contrary his paranoia had been so strong he thinks he’d have noticed if Flins had moved his furniture a half centimetre to the right.

Coupled with the odd atmosphere, like the world was holding its breath… Illuga readjusts his grip on the supply pack, and sets off, looking for Flins.

He’s careful not to stray from the beaten path— Flins’ warnings linger in his ears, about strange things that linger at crossroads, and stranger things still that like to lure unsuspecting travellers into nowhere. He’s neither unsuspecting nor a traveller, but he puts a little too much stock into Flins’ uncanniness to go disregarding his advice.

He hasn’t wandered far, actually, before he finds the very man he’s looking for— Flins is slumped against the biggest tombstone in the graveyard, lantern cradled gently in his hands, dead asleep.

For some reason, the sight unsettles Illuga. He’s never actually seen Flins sleep before, in spite of the chronic bags under his eyes— he always waved away his concerns, stating he had  “more than adequate rest—” but Illuga has to admit, like this, Flins looks almost…

Dead.

His breathing is a little too shallow, his skin a little too pale. The bags under his eyes seem deeper than ever, and Illuga leans forward and gently shakes him awake before he even knows what he’s doing.

Flins screws up his face and shuffles away, turning his face more firmly into his collar. Illuga shakes him again, a little more roughly, and Flins’ lamplike eyes crack open a smidgen, brilliant yellow peeking out from beneath long lashes.

“Ιλούγα…?” Flins mumbles, and Illuga feels his face flame red. That’s undoubtedly his name, but Flins has altered the consonant in the middle— it’s softer, halfway between an H and a G, and selfishly, Illuga immediately wants to hear it again.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Sir Flins, wake up. You’re sleeping in a graveyard; you’re going to get a terrible crick in your neck—”

Then, something very odd happens.

Flins outright startles, like he’d very abruptly realized where he was and what he was doing and been surprised by it.

Then, he disappears.

Poof, gone. One moment he’s there, a mess of long limbs and dark clothes, and then the next he seems to have almost melted at the edges, fading into whisps of light that all seem to coalesce into his lantern, which glows very brightly for a moment before settling down again.

And Illuga just stares at it, wide-eyed, and feels a bit like he’s having a fever dream when he squeaks out: “Sir Flins?”

The silence that follows is long enough for Illuga to start wondering if he’s actually lost his mind, when the lantern fucking speaks to him, and it’s Flins’ voice, too.

“Apologies, Young Master,” it— he?— says. He sounds embarrassed, Illuga reflects hysterically. “I’m afraid you’d startled me rather badly.”

“Sorry,” Illuga manages. “It— wasn’t my intention. Um—” Questions race through his mind: why are you a lantern? Why were you sleeping outside? Why were you sleeping against a gravestone? Why are you like this? But instead, what comes out is: “Do you… usually do this, when you’re surprised?”

The flames within the lantern turn fuchsia. “Direct questions… I suppose it’s not a reaction out of the ordinary, though I confess I am not so easily surprised, usually. This is… hmm, something of a first for me.”

Illuga nods slowly, trying not to feel too awkward about the whole thing. Aedon lives in his lantern, sure, but last he’d checked, Flins wasn’t an Electro construct. So what…?

He clears his throat. “And how do you do this?”

The silence that follows is long, and painful.

“It’s a… particular quirk, which… others… like me are… partial to.”

Illuga stares at the lantern incredulously. “Sir Flins, are you feeling alright? That was the worst obfuscation I’ve ever heard from you.”

Flins huffed a laugh. “Looking to kick a man while he’s down, Illuga? The Young Master has a cruel streak, it seems, my my.”

The lantern glows brightly for a moment, and then Flins seems to materialize out of it, flares of purple-blue flames solidifying into the figure Illuga is familiar with, leaning against the headstone in quite a similar fashion to what he had been doing before.

He indicates the package Illuga is still holding. “More supplies?”

“Yeah,” Illuga responds, distracted. Flins is nothing if not proper, always impeccably put-together, but the way he’s leaned against the crypt seems almost— casual. Like it’s a well-worn armchair by a fire instead of someone’s final resting place.

He doesn’t like how natural the positioning looks on him.

“You can sit,” Flins tells him gently, like he can tell what Illuga is thinking. “The owner doesn’t mind.”

Hesitantly, Illuga lowers himself to the stone floor. “Did you… Did you know them?”

“Hmm.” A smile plays on Flins’ lips. It’s not a happy smile. “I knew them, certainly. Once upon a time, I believe I might’ve even understood them. Now, however…” he trailed off. “I’m afraid I only understand them on rainy days.”

Illuga doesn’t like the sound of that. “A relative of yours?” he asks, and Flins hums a note.

“Mm, something like that, I’m sure,” he says, before gesturing to the name chiselled into the stone.

‘Chudomir the Aarnivalkea.’

“‘Chudomir…’ that’s your patronym, isn’t it?” Illuga asks, and Flins nods.

“Something like that,” he agrees. He sounds tired in a way he isn’t usually, and the smile he fixes Illuga with doesn’t meet his eyes. “Apologies, Young Master Illuga. I’m afraid I’ve been a rather lacking host, thus far.”

“That’s alright,” Illuga tells him, and means it. “I don’t mind.”

Flins raises an eyebrow at him, then sighs and leans more of his weight against the wrought stone, eyes closed. If Illuga didn’t know any better, he’d say that Flins were trying to actively become one with it, to fall through the stone and dirt until he was lying at the bottom, six feet under.

He hesitates before speaking. “Sir Flins.”

“Yes?”

“Is… Is today a rainy day?”

“Are there many stormclouds gathered, Illuga?”

There goes his honorific again. The inside of Illuga’s mouth goes dry. “Not… Not always where I can see them,” he says weakly, “but I think so, yes.”

For a moment, he fears he’s overstepped— fears that Flins will open his eyes and fix him with an unimpressed look, tell him  that he’s overstepped and he’d like to be left alone, now, that Illuga ought to be leaving—

But then Flins huffs a laugh and cracks open one tired eye to look at him. “You would have made a fine addition to Belyi Tsar’s court,” he praises, and Illuga feels himself go red. “Perceptive and well-spoken; I daresay you could have run three circles around the Fair Folk there before they realized what had happened.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Sir Flins,” Illuga says weakly.

“Do you think my words insincere? I promise you, Illuga, I am being quite serious.”

Illuga looked away, picking at the seams of his gloves.

“Then…” he says, before he can lose his nerve: “Then perhaps I might have a turn at storytelling? Doubtless you’ve heard them all before,” he adds quickly, because he can tell even without looking that Flins’ interest has been piqued, and he feels the need to set his expectations: “But…”

“A new tongue doth give an old tale new life,” Flins murmurs, then fixes Illuga with a piercing stare. “Go on, Young Master Illuga. I am listening.”

So Illuga takes a deep breath, and begins.

4:

Mushrooms do not grow in Nod Krai.

Or, perhaps Illuga should rephrase: mushrooms do grow in Nod Krai, but not easily or happily. It’s certainly damp enough, but the temperature leaves quite another to be desired— it’s simply too cold for the little things to get their footing in.

That said, there are a few more resistant species that claim Nod Krai as their home, each of them as bitter and tough as the last, but the sort that Illuga is looking at now is not like anything he’d seen before.

They’re short and stout, robust if Illuga were to use another adjective, and they’re ugly, mottled shades of green and aqua. They’re arranged into a perfect circle, an even radius all the way around, and Illuga can’t quite explain it, but the sight unsettles him.

He kneels down to inspect them a bit closer. Up close, he realizes that they— they look funny. They’re fine if he looks at them head-on, but in his peripherals, their forms seem to shift and waver— there one moment, gone the next.

He reaches out one hand, wanting to touch them—

A hand winds itself into his collar and pulls him back; Illuga yelps when he topples over backwards against the hard earth. He props himself up on one elbow, eyes wide as Flins sweeps his arm out, and sets the ring of mushrooms ablaze.

“Young Master Illuga,” he says, without looking over. “Forgive me my rudeness. I’m afraid you were about to do something quite dire.”

“Flins,” Illuga manages— it’s about all he can manage, after having the Dickens scared out of him so thoroughly. “I… didn’t hear you come up.”

The latter part of Flins’ sentence registers. “Dire?”

Flins nods, and finally looks back at him. Illuga shivers at what he sees— rage, coiled just beneath the surface, leaking out at the corners because there’s simply too much to be contained.  It’s a cold rage, one that promised a slow and painful death to the receiver of its ire. Oddly, though, Illuga can tell that it’s not directed at him— he has the feeling, unshakeable and true, that it has to do with the ring of mushrooms that Flins just destroyed.

“Fairy circles,” Flins says finally, and Illuga watches as he dials back the glare in real-time. It’s still there, but it looks less like he’s about to go level a city block because of it, now. “Surely you’re familiar with the stories, Young Master?”

Illuga blinks at him. It takes a moment for the memory to pop up, disoriented as he is, but he goes pale when it clicks.

“The Fae who kept company at the Belyi Tsar’s court had a certain… fascination, with humans, that was not altogether healthy for the humans in question,” Flins had told him one night, sat around an old rickety table in the lighthouse, a jug of water and two cups between them. “When asking their names proved inefficient, they resolved to simply… trap the desired human within a ring of mushrooms for their own entertainment. Very often, that human was never heard from again, reduced to a mere plaything for the fairies to enjoy, until they grew bored and disregarded them entirely.”

Illuga’s tongue doesn’t work in his mouth, and he has to try three times before the words come out: “I thought you said that Fae only lived in Snezhnaya.”

“That is certainly where they prefer to dwell,” Flins corrected, “but it would be foolish to assume they would not migrate if sufficiently motivated.”

Illuga curls around his lantern, trembling slightly as he realizes precisely how close to peril he’d truly come. There’s a flare of light, and a moment later Aedon appears, perching on his shoulder as it rubs its head against his temple, an deep rumbling coming from its throat as it attempts to calm him down.

Flins tilts his head to the side, expression considering.

“Come back to the lighthouse, Young Master,” he says, after a moment, and offers a hand to Illuga. “You look unwell. I understand that tea and coffee dehydrate the body, but I’ve been told that a warm drink nourishes the spirit in turn.”

Hesitantly, Illuga places his hand in Flins’ and allows the older ratnik to pull him to his feet. Flins’ hands are cold, even though the gloves they both wear, but it’s a peculiar sort of cold— nothing like the biting freeze the Northern wind sometimes carries down from Snezhnaya, or the miserable, aching chill that comes in off the docks.

It’s the sort of cold that exists when there’s no warmth otherwise produced by a human body, Illuga realizes.

He looks back up at Flins, and sees the concern in his eyes.

Then, he follows him back to the lighthouse.

It’s quiet as they walk, but it’s not an awkward or discomforting silence— on the contrary, Illuga feels rather at ease, walking next to Flins like this. There’s this quiet sort of confidence with which he carries himself that implies he could walk through a foreign city blindfolded and still manage to get to where he needs to be in a timely manner.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Flins be lost.

They’re nearly at the lighthouse when Illuga spots it, and he swears he nearly wrenches Flins’ arm out of his socket with how quickly he yanks him back, but he’s not willing to take any chances.

Because there, right in front of them, is another fairy circle.

This one looks leagues different from the last one, Illuga notices immediately— colours aside, this one is bright and vibrant instead of mottled and muted, and the mushrooms themselves are delicate and whispy instead of short and stout. They’re deep shades of purple and blue, caps laden with white spots, but upon further inspection, Illuga spots bright gold ones interspaced between the purple and blue.

For some reason, they remind him of Flins— they’re the exact same colour as his eyes.

“Oh,” Flins says, and stops short. He seems surprised, then a little embarrassed. “You have a keen eye, Young Master.”

Flins holds out his lantern. The fairy circle burns away into nothingness.

“Come along,” Flins says, and continues walking, completely unbothered. Illuga lingers for a moment, unable to shake the feeling that there had been something within that interaction that he’d missed, before shaking his head and hurrying after Flins.

5:

Sir Flins shows up unannounced at Illuga’s house five days later at around midday, and Illuga is entirely unprepared.

Flins’ expression morphs into surprise when he opens the door, then outright amusement. Illuga is too sleep-muddled to care. “Did I wake you, Young Master?”

“Yes,” Illuga grouses, and Flins laughs.

“Apologies,” he says. Illuga leans on the doorway, rubbing at his eye with one hand. It’s an unfortunate byproduct of being a lightkeeper— the Wild Hunt becomes more active at night, so the lightkeepers in turn become more active at night. This would be fine, but the work of a captain does not cease simply because the sun comes up— there’s so. Much. Paperwork.

All this to say: there are not enough hours in a day for Illuga to get everything done, and still catch his thirty winks.

He zones back in to catch the end of Flins’ sentence. “— merely wished to ascertain your wellbeing,” he says. He’s still smiling, but seems a little distracted: his gaze keeps dipping, lingering on Illuga’s exposed shoulders and upper arms. With what looks like great difficulty, Flins drags his gaze up to Illuga’s eyes and says: “I shan’t occupy your time any longer—”

“Hvat?” Illuga asks, then shakes his head. “No, no, I— you’ve come such a long way, I—” he cuts himself off, and takes a deep breath. “Sir Flins,” he says, and hopes he doesn’t look as stupid as he feels.  Half-asleep, stumbling over his words, outright switching languages— Illuga is doing excellently. “You’ve come a long way— please come in and have some water before you leave.”

Flins hesitates for a moment, and Illuga cocks his head to the side.

“When the Young Master asks so earnestly,” he says finally, “how can I refuse?”

Illuga fixes him with a flat stare for that one— he’s not so half-asleep that he can’t hear the innuendo in Flins’ words— and beckons him inside, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand as he tries to remember what the fuck went into entertaining a guest.

Refreshments, right? Illuga is pretty sure refreshments are a thing that’s meant to happen.

“I know I said ‘water,’” he says as he bustles about his small kitchen— pulling coffee beans out of the cupboard, creamer out of the icebox; the process is automatic for him for how often he does it. “But would you prefer coffee, or tea? I might actually have some fruit juice somewhere—”

He cuts himself off, and slowly rotates on the spot. Flins’ attention is locked on the coffee creamer, a fixation so intense that Illuga’s a little surprised it’s not burning a hole through his kitchen counter, and he asks, voice hesitant: “Sir Flins?”

Flins startles, then looks back at him with an expression that can only be apologetic. “Water is just fine, Young Master,” he says, but he’s gone back to staring at the cream again, and Illuga tilts his head to the side.

“Sir Flins,” he begins, “correct me if I’m wrong, but would you— prefer to merely have the cream…?”

He’s doubtful even as he says the words— Illuga’s preferred coffee creamer is a whopping 35%; to him, on its own, it’s thick and slimy and utterly disgusting, but he likes the way it goes in coffee— but he doesn’t think he’s mistaking the look of longing in Flins’ eyes.

Sure enough: “Oh— I— would be terribly uncouth of me, I’m afraid—”

Illuga sighs. He’s too tired for any of Flins’ courtly politeness. “Sir Flins. Would you like the coffee creamer.”

He swears Flins twitches. “Direct questions,” he mutters to himself, then, louder: “If you’re offering—”

“Done,” Illuga says instantly, and pours a cup of cream for his coworker without another word. See? he wants to say. Was that so hard? Just say what you mean for once, you silly man—

They lapse into conversation— Illuga, leaning against the countertop, staring intently as Flins narrates another story of old, pausing every so often to take a sip of his drink, and it’s odd, in a word. Illuga has never in his life seen Flins enjoy food before; he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen him eat, but he savours that cupful of cream like it’s water from the fountain of youth.

Though, to be fair, Illuga’s not rightly sure that Flins needs that— he’s not really changed in all the years he’s known him…

“— so thus the Anemo Archon flew over the hills and marshes, all to collect the Geo Archon’s polearm from the giant whom he’d relinquished it to in the first place— Illuga?” He startles, blinks, and looks around. Flins is looking at him in open concern, though his expression gentles when he realizes Illuga is looking at him. “Please, do not feel any need to stay awake because of me, Young Master. I’d hate for you to be ill-rested on my account.”

Illuga stares at him for a moment— Flins has such a beautiful way of speaking, but sometimes it takes Illuga a moment to parse what he’s talking about, if he’s already distracted— and then immediately shakes his head when it clicks. “No, no!” he yelps, and Flins frowns. “No, I’m— I’m quite alright, Sir Flins; really, it’s— a bit late in the day for me to be napping, honestly—”

“Do lightkeepers not keep to a pace that is nocturnal?” Flins murmurs, and stands up from his chair, sweeping around the countertop to stand just in front of Illuga. His breath catches in his throat when Flins cups his cheek in one hand, gently pressing a thumb into the skin under his eye. “One would assume you did not sleep at all with eyebags such as these.”

Illuga swallows roughly. “One could say the same of you,” he responds. His heart is beating very quickly. Can Flins hear it? He feels like Flins can hear it.

Flins huffs a laugh that sends shivers down Illuga’s spine, and steps away. Illuga tries not to mourn his absence too obviously. “The Young Master is feisty when he is tired,” he observes, amusement clear in his tone. “Sleep, Illuga. You will do yourself no favours, running yourself ragged day and night.”

Illuga hesitates, but Flins’ eyes are so terribly compelling.

“You’re a terrible influence, Sir Flins,” he complains, and watches as Flins’ grin goes wide. “Only an hour. Um— you’re welcome to stay, o-or you can head out if you need to, um—”

“I shall worry about the logistics,” Flins tells him, and makes a little shooing motion with his hand. “Run along, now. You’re eating up precious minutes.”

Illuga rolls his eyes, but heads back to his bedroom, regardless. Unsurprisingly, he’s out like a light pretty much the minute his head hits the pillow, and before he knows it, he’s blinking into wakefulness, groggily trying to place the time and wondering what the hell had happened.

Then, he remembers, and flops backwards onto his bed with a groan.

He’s really just abandoned Sir Flins to go take a nap, didn’t he? Nevermind that it had been Flins’ idea to begin with; Illuga should have shot it down faster than you could say “bad host,” but—

He pauses; takes a look around his small living space.

It is… suspiciously clean. Illuga is not an untidy person by any stretch of the imagination— leading a utilitarian lifestyle tends to afford one that luxury— but this is next-level, even for him. Every surface has been dusted, near-polished, and his couch cushions have been arranged perfectly upon their respective surfaces. The curtains have been straightened, pictureframes rightened, and by the time Illuga realizes that Flins must have done it he’s ready to die of mortification.

Excellent job, Illuga, he thinks to himself. He’s ready to take a swan-dive out of the nearest window. You abandoned your guest, and then he felt the need to tidy your house.

He sighs and collapses against the couch, head in his hand as he stares at his impeccably-cleaned apartment.

Then, he spots the piece of paper on the coffee table, flourished with Flins’ signature, and his heart leaps into his throat.

It’s short, brief but eloquent, absolutely typical of Flins’ preferred manner of written address, but what makes Illuga pause is the postscript at the end:

Be careful offering cream to strange things at crossroads, Young Master Illuga. Not all are kind enough to return a favour given with a favour owed.

He blinks owlishly at the warning, then blinks some more. Wonders what the hell that means, and just as quickly decides that some things should be taken at face-value, and resolves to be more mindful of whom he offers beverages to, whatever that means.

+1:

Illuga does not often visit the Flagship. Usually, he’s too busy— paperwork, patrol, trying to get ahold of Flins’ paperwork— he just doesn’t have the time for it. He’s not that big a drinker besides— it just makes him tired, even moreso than usual, and thus he wastes his free time by sleeping it off. More trouble than it’s worth.

But occasionally, he will find himself seated at one of the tables in the establishment, nursing a beverage of some kind.

Such as today.

Flins’ habit of people-watching must have rubbed off on him, he reflects as he cushions his head in one hand. There’s something so deeply entertaining about watching people in their everyday lives— barmaids wiping down countertops, ratniki trading stories between themselves— he even sees a few Knights of Favonius, too—

He pauses, and sits up a bit straighter.

He also sees Sir Flins.

He’s sat between his fellow lightkeepers and a few knights, a polite smile on his face as he watches the conversations go back and forth. Illuga tilts his head to the side, watching, considering, admiring— and then he realizes what he’s doing and promptly snaps out of it.

He can hear fragments of conversation, actually, if he focuses, and Illuga— he’s not one to eavesdrop, but he does enjoy listening to others converse, if there’s such a difference. And Flins, well— Illuga likes listening to him talk, period. He has such an interesting way of speaking— archaic and formal, distant but not cold… Illuga finds himself entranced, truth me told.

As he listens, though, he notices something very peculiar: Flins does not answer questions. Not directly, at any rate— he gives a response, certainly, but oftentimes that response is another question.

Illuga sits up a little straighter.

Now that he’s paying attention, he’s suddenly aware of the subtle way that Flins controls the conversation— he redirects any queries launched his way with no real answer, disarms them with playful, polite admonition, and, Illuga realizes with a jolt, gives answers that technically satisfy the question asked, but don’t get at the real crux of the matter…

As he watches, absolutely fascinated, it clicks:

Flins isn’t lying.

Every word he speaks is the truth, by mere technicality if nothing else, and Illuga marvels at it, because it’s so damn subtle that he’s missed it for the entirety of the time he’s known the other ratnik. He replays conversations they’ve had in his head, and is perturbed to find that Flins has used those methods on him before, and Illuga had been none the wiser.

He wonders, for a moment, if it’s a deliberate choice, and immediately shoots the idea down. No one would voluntarily go through so many mental gymnastics— it has to be that Flins can’t lie, for whatever reason.

No wonder he’s so well-spoken, Illuga thinks suddenly. He has to be.

He entertains it, for a moment— how would he manage, if he were unable to lie?— and finds it a very sobering, very frightening reality. Is it a curse, he wonders? It certainly sounds like a curse, but somehow, he doesn’t— doesn’t think it’s quite right…

He’s so focused on turning this new revelation over in his mind that he doesn’t notice that he’s been caught staring until Flins is right in front of him and says, voice teasing: “Does the Young Master see something he likes, or is he merely zoned out in my general direction?”

Illuga startles; bangs his knees on the underside of the table. He looks up at Flins wildly, is met with a mischievous expression, and promptly feels words fail him: “Sir Flins! N-No, I wasn’t— well, it’s not that you’re unpleasant to look at; really it’s— it’s quite the opposite—” shut up shut up shut up— “I was just! Thinking!”

Flins grins; raises an eyebrow. “About what, might I ask? Though, that blush is awfully telling… why, it wasn’t anything salacious, was it?”

Illuga squeaks.

“Hnngk!” he says, which isn’t helpful at all, and makes Flins laugh. “No! No, not at all! I was— I was—”

“It must have been something dreadfully filthy; you’re redder than a cherry tomato—”

“I was thinking about how you can’t lie!” Illuga blurts, and then goes very, very still.

Flins, too, has gone very still, staring at Illuga with the truest expression of shock he’s ever seen on the man, and at a complete loss for what to do, Illuga grabs ahold of his tankard, and chugs it like he’s going to die tomorrow.

“Illuga— Illuga—”

He surfaces for air and slams the tankard down onto the table. “Sorry,” he gasps. “That was— uncouth.”

Flins arches a brow. Illuga struggles to meet his eye.

“I’m impressed you noticed,” Flins finally admits. “Most people don’t. What clued you in?”

“You— You don’t answer questions,” Illuga says, a beat too late. “You just ask a question instead, or answer with a technicality…”

There’s a subtle smile at the edge of Flins’ mouth. Somehow, Illuga gets the feeling that he’d done very, very well.

“Very good,” he praises, and Illuga feels himself go a few shades redder. Flins slides into the chair opposite him and leans forward, an expression of keen interest on his face.

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at Illuga with those uncanny, lamplike yellow eyes of his, and Illuga bites his lip before looking away.

“Sir Flins,” he finally says, curling his fingers around his empty tankard. “What are you?”

Because he doesn’t think it’s a curse, is the thing. Flins navigates around it too easily for that to be the case, but there’s other things, too— disappearing into his lantern, that odd allergy to iron, of all things, and everything else that just doesn’t add up— Illuga has a nagging feeling that he should know, but he just can’t put his finger on it.

Flins huffs a laugh, at that, and stands up from the table, offering a hand to Illuga a moment later.

“You’ll forgive me, I hope, my amusement,” he says. “Most folks are not so bold as to ask straight-up.”

Illuga tilts his head up, and blames the liquor for what he says next: “You like me when I’m bold.”

Flins laughs again. “More things, I think, that Nikita will be better off not knowing,” he says, and pulls Illuga to his feet. He stumbles momentarily, headrush making him dizzy, and Flins steadies him. “Easy now. Hmm. Was this Master Illuga’s first drink, or third?”

“First,” Illuga mutters, and squeezes his eyes shut. He hates this. When he feels less like his head is three feet away from his body, he opens his eyes and looks up at Flins. “Well?”

Flins arches an eyebrow at him. “‘Well,’ what?”

Illuga sighs. “Are you ever going to give me a straight answer, for once?”

Flins hums. “Perhaps, provided you learn to ask the right question. Come.” He begins leading Illuga out of the tavern. “I shall… not entertain questions whilst there is a high likelihood that I will be overheard.”

“Mysterious bastard,” Illuga mutters. Flins snorts.

“Well, I need to maintain some level of intrigue, don’t I?” he responds as he pushes open the door. The cool night air does wonders to clear Illuga’s head, and he breathes deeply, relishing in the sensation. “After all, what would I do, if all my tricks were revealed?”

“I’m sure you’d figure something out,” Illuga responds, a little deadpan, and Flins’ smile grows.

He leads him out of Nasha Town, away from the hustle and bustle and clank of machinery, to a grassy knoll dense with kuuvaki. It reacts with Illuga’s Moonwheel, making the gem in the center glow brightly, and Aedon appears beside him and immediately begins to rip up the grass with its beak.

Flins watches the Geo construct with furrowed brows. “Such a destructive little thing.”

“I claim no credit for its behaviour,” Illuga says.

“Certainly not,” Flins agrees, and sits down next to him, knees drawn up to his chest as he looks out over Nasha Town. He looks ethereal, like that; moonlight turning the tips of his hair silver, and Illuga speaks without meaning to:

“What are you?”

Flins’ lips twitch at the corners. “I suppose that question depends very much on whom you ask,” he says, and Illuga scowls. He’s is enjoying this. “Ratnik, lightkeeper. Recluse, ‘friend,’ by some measure.” He pauses; his smile grows. “Irritant, most certainly.”

“Sir Flins,” Illuga complains, and Flins laughs.

“Forgive me my merriment, Young Master,” he says. “I confess you make it almost too easy. I believe the common advice was to, ‘be specific,’ once upon a time, but that was quite a while ago. I daresay it’s been quite forgotten, by now.”

“‘Be specific…?’” Illuga echoes, hopelessly lost. He sighs, and scrubs a hand over his face. “Sir Flins, forgive me saying so, but you speak exactly like the Fae from your stories. It’s impossible to get a straight answer out of you!”

Flins is quiet for a moment, then abruptly breaks out into peals of undignified laughter, bent double as he clutches at his middle.

“What? What?” Illuga cries. “Sir Flins, I don’t—” He pauses suddenly, as the puzzle pieces begin to slot into place. “Wait a minute.”

Flins grins at him, face flushed from laughing, and Illuga feels very much like a fool.

“You’re a fairy,” he realizes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

Flins shrugs his shoulders. “It’s not a fact I advertise,” he acknowledges, as if that makes up for Illuga’s complete lack of observational skills.

“The iron—” he realizes, and Flins inclines his head.

“Perhaps a brief underexaggeration on my part,” he admits. “It can be quite deadly, past a certain point, but I was not in any real danger. I was with you, after all.”

Illuga’s mind is spinning. “So then— all your stories, they— were you actually there?”

“Some of them, certainly,” Flins answers readily. “I confess I was not there when Barbatos gambled away Morax’s Vortex Vanquisher, but I was certainly present in the Belyi Tsar’s court.”

Illuga stares at him, voice dying in his throat at that admission. The Belyi Tsar’s court… All of a sudden, he feels the gulf difference between him and Flins— feels very aware of his own insignificance, sitting across from someone who’s lived for centuries, seen more and experienced more than Illuga will in his entire lifetime.

He feels very small, in that moment.

Flins’ smile turns a little wry, as if he can sense what Illuga’s thinking. “I’ve been around the block once or twice,” he agrees. “But the old saying holds true: quantity does not equal quality.” He tilts his head to the side. “You have questions, Young Master?”

Illuga almost doesn’t know where to begin. Although— “Isn’t it true,” he hedges, “that Fae— they can’t lie?”

Flins’ eyes glitter. “Looking to take advantage of my natural inclination towards the truth? The Young Master does have a cruel streak.”

“Stop that,” Illuga scolds. “Yes or no?”

“I am unable to tell an untruth as long as I understand it as such,” Flins admits. “That is to say, if what I say turns out to be wrong or untrue, it still does not qualify as a lie if I was unaware of this fact beforehand.” He pauses. “Makes sense?”

“Yeah,” Illuga says. He feels a little lost, and wonders how many of Flins’ idiosyncrasies are him, and how many are just his nature manifesting in a place that isn’t built for him.

Flins raises an eyebrow at him, and for a nanosecond Illuga wonders if he can read his mind.

“The— Your lantern,” he says quickly, for want of something to say. “That’s not a trick you do with your Moonwheel, is it?”

Flins shakes his head. “Certainly not,” he replies. “That is indeed a trick by my own nature— certain members of the Fae could sequester themselves in hollow objects if it so suited their fancy. We are elemental beings at our cores— my true form is something more akin to a flame, in spite of my preference towards Electro.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve always favoured a lantern, though pumpkins and turnips are more traditional. They’ll do in a pinch.”

Illuga entertains himself momentarily with imagining Flins hiding away in a pumpkin— something with a silly face carved into it— before he shakes his head and refocuses. “Do you often disappear into your lantern when you have the dickens scared out of you?” he asks, tone going a little wry at the end, and Flins chuckles.

“I’m not exactly an easy person to startle, Young Master,” he says, “but yes, I suppose that if I were to be sufficiently surprised, that would be my first response.”

“And its habit of flaring red…?”

“You’ll notice that yours does that too,” Flins points out, “but yes, mine is… a little more in-tune to what poses a specific threat to me. Comes with the territory, I’m afraid— after all, who do you think this flame is?”

That gives Illuga pause, caught between reconciling the Flins sat on dew-wet grass with him, versus the blue flame in his lantern, and he shakes his head before refocusing.

“Then what was wrong in Piramida?” he asks suddenly, and Flins frowns at him. “That— That day, three weeks ago— we were walking towards the docks, and your lantern flared red…”

He trails off. Flins looks a little too amused, again, that mischievous, secretive little smile that only spelled trouble for whomever it was directed at, and he says, very simply: “You wore your shirt inside-out that day.”

Illuga resists the urge to collapse into a fit of hysterics. “I was hoping you hadn’t noticed!” he wails, and Flins laughs again. “Aedon kept trying to pull on the seams, it was horrible!”

“It was a common method for warding off the Fae Folk, back in the days of yore,” Flins explains. “I’d not seen it for ages— I had thought you to be quite cross with me, at first!”

“Cross? With you? I could never,” Illuga responds, sarcastic, and Flins snorts a laugh.

He leans back on his hands, tilting his head up to look at Illuga, and he feels his breath catch in his throat, seeing Flins staring at him like that, eyes half-lidded. Does he realize how good-looking he is, Illuga wonders? He’d heard the stories about the Fae Folk, of course (though not from Flins, which, on reflection, makes sense) and there’s a reason another one of their epithets is Fair Folk— they’re said to be stunning, ethereal and beautiful. Illuga is seeing that firsthand, now.

“You— uh— your hand,” Illuga blurts, hardly in control of his own tongue, and Flins’ smile wavers a little. “Is it— healing?”

“Is that concern I detect in your voice, Young Master?” Flins murmurs, then pulls off off his left glove with his teeth and holds his hand out for Illuga’s inspection. “Wounds of this nature typically do not heal nicely, or with any sort of haste.”

Illuga can tell. The skin on Flins’ palm is red and angry, stretched taught— it looks painful. Illuga doesn’t understand how Flins had been able to bear wearing a glove overtop of it.

“I wish you’d told me about this sooner,” Illuga mutters, then pauses. “The iron allergy, that is. I could have done something had I known.”

Flins’ smile turns very soft. “And what would the Young Master have done, mm? Gone throughout the entirety of Nod Krai, ridding the landscape of every ferrous metal you came across?”

“I’d make sure there was less of it in Piramida, at the very least,” Illuga says, and Flins looks so terribly conflicted for a moment before he huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

“Most folks, who put out iron,” he explains, staring up at the sky, “do not do so to ward away the Fae Folk, unless the circumstances are truly dire. Most times, the goal is to hurt them, and quite miserably, too. It is the only thing that will leave a scar. To hear you speak of removing it…” he chuckles. “It is the strangest and most heartwarming promise I have heard in many years, Young Master.”

Illuga doesn’t respond for a moment, watching Flins as he watches the sky. Treacherously, he wonders if Flins has such scars under his clothes— wonders if there are marks on his body that speak of other’s unkindness, of a fear and wariness that wouldn’t listen to honesty or pleading.

Treacherously, he considers asking, even if only for a moment, but can’t bear to give the thought breath and words, not when Flins had promised him answers from a mouth that couldn’t lie.

“How the hell do you manage in Nod Krai?” he mutters, and Flins huffs a laugh.

“Slowly,” he says, “and with a tolerance I am certain many of my kinsmen would kill to have.”

That makes him feel a little better, at least. He doesn’t like to imagine Flins a prisoner in the land he deigns to dwell in, forced to navigate through and around something that will kill him if he’s not careful around it.

(He makes a mental note to adjust the iron compounds in Piramida, regardless.)

“Hey, what was with the cream?” Illuga asks, and Flins makes an inquisitive noise. “Is that— Is that a fae-thing, or a you-thing?”

Flins blushes, at that, and Illuga immediately wants to needle him for more information— wants to see if he can get that blush to go over his ears.

“That… That is a ‘fae-thing,’ as you so eloquently put it,” he says after a moment. “Most human food is bland and tasteless to the Fae, but cream— it was left on windowsills as an offering to Lesser Fae, in the hope for an exchange: ‘As I have left you sweet cream, so too shall you repay my kindness and help with the household.’”

Illuga pauses, squinting as he decodes that one. “Wait, you— you tidied my house because I gave you cream?”

“I chose to tidy as an equivalent exchange,” Flins says immediately, something haughty in his tone, and Illuga chokes down a laugh. “Even High Fae have a predilection towards cream— it was just easier to get the help of the Lesser.”

Illuga bites down on his knuckles, trying not to smile. “Were you a ‘High Fae,’ then?” he asks.

“I was certainly no brownie,” Flins mutters, a little churlish, and Illuga finally loses the battle with his will and bursts out laughing, giggling madly as Flins pouts at him.

“There used to be cautionary tales about offending the Fae,” he grumbles. “What a shame those have been forgotten.”

Illuga grins at him, and Flins’ expression softens. He sighs heavily, “You would have undone the Belyi Tsar’s court in a matter of days.”

It’s not the first time he’s said such sentiments, but it still makes Illuga blush regardless, and he looks away.

Aedon’s been busy in the time it’s been left it to its own devices; when he deigns to check in on the bird, he realizes it’s ripped up all the grass in a near-perfect circle, a barren patch of dirt in its wake, and Illuga squawks.

“Aedon!” he scolds, and receives a petulant-sounding caw for his efforts. “Stop that!”

Defiantly, Aedon rips up one last clump of grass, then disappears back into his lantern.

Illuga kneads his temples, staring at the circle of dirt out of the corner of his eye, and slows when a thought occurred to him.

That… The second ring of mushroom’s they’d found, the purple-blue ones, with the tiny gold ones interspaced throughout— that couldn’t have been— no, it couldn’t—

“Fairy rings,” Flins murmurs, and Illuga looks over at him. His expression is stormy. “Forgive me, Young Master; it was written all over your face.” He pauses. “You won’t find many of them in Nod Krai; most Fae Folk, what few of us there are, prefer to dwell further North, but there are a few of us scattered elsewhere across the face of Teyvat.

“My kinsmen used to use them to catch unsuspecting humans,” Flins continued. “Understand, Illuga, that walking into one means surrendering your body— the corpus— to the fairy who’d created it. There is… little to no escape, past then.”

“You had fairy circles,” Illuga says out loud. He pauses. “You have fairy circles?”

His use of the present tense doesn’t go unnoticed by Flins, who looks away and coughs politely into his fist. He’s blushing, again, a delicate pink upon his features. “There is… very little I can do to curb their creation entirely,” he admits. “I’m rather afraid that it’s a phenomenon that happens whether I wish it to or not, though I destroy them completely when I find them, and any human who wanders into one leaves in full possession of their limbs. On this, you have my word, Illuga.”

Illuga wonders if there’s anything in that promise that he’s missing— wonders if there’s layers of understanding that he simply doesn’t know about because he doesn’t fully understand Flins’ nature. He wonders if he would be permitted to learn. “Did you have any more questions, Young Master?”

“You’re offering me free reign?”

Flins shrugs. “What can I say? I trust you not to take advantage.”

“Bold of you to think I could,” Illuga says wryly. He means it more in the sense that he doesn’t think he could outwit Flins in a game of words to the point where he’d have to admit something he didn’t want to, but Flins seems to think otherwise.

“For all quick-wits, I don’t think I’d have liked to see you in the Belyi Tsar’s court,” he murmurs, then looks up at Illuga with an expression so sincere it makes Illuga’s heart stop. “You’re too kindhearted. Someone would have taken advantage of you.”

“Probably for the best that I’m here, then,” Illuga replies, and Flins huffs a laugh.

“Yes,” he says, and goes back to staring up at the sky. “Yes, I think it is.”