Chapter Text
Flins never liked to entertain the curious sort.
Those who know him would claim that he's a kind man, the very essence of a gentleman—if not a bit peculiar with his ways of speaking and his habits. They speak of a distant but reliable comrade, one who has suffered a deep sorrow that resonates with them all. A mysterious brother-in-arms with a preference for solitude, keeping watch over their lighthouse. A man fascinated by rare gems and coins, so much so that if one looked closely they'd see his eyes light up upon finding one. But that is all they will ever know, as far as Flins is concerned. He waxes and weaves pleasantries, spins coils of golden threaded compliments, and meaningful tales of woe. He watches over humanity yet keeps them far, never stepping too close.
He maintains just enough to keep up the illusion that he himself is one of them, uses his polite smiles to draw the line between them. Their sympathy his mask, his careful distance.
Curiosity, after all, leads to too many questions. It leads to the determined search for answers, some less willing to give up than others. Curiosity can bring one down a dangerous path—and that isn’t a path Flins cares to walk. So he uses his stories, his tricky words, whatever strategy he can in order to steer the curious away. It’s better to aim the spotlight at something other than himself, lest his human companions look too close and notice anything amiss.
It was a safety net used to keep the past buried, to let sleeping giants lie and shadows to lurk along the edges of darkness and light. What use was the past anyway, when those who share his memories have disappeared like patterns drawn by fingers in sand, only to later be swept away by the tide of time? When the tale of the man once known as Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins has long since ended and a new chapter began? Now, he is simply Flins, a humble aid of the Lightkeepers. There is no reason to disturb the rest of ghosts, after all. His lineage left behind, nothing more than words on a record for the past to be kept.
His past is like the scales of a thornback gecko, left behind and abandoned for good reason. It grants him a new beginning, a rebirth of self, and perhaps that is why the graveyard of Final Night Cemetery feels like home. Ironic, for a sanctuary of Death to act as a place of comfort and residence, a lighthouse for lost souls. For was it not the very beacon that called out to Flins on that fateful night, the catalyst that set him onto this journey to begin with? A place known as the end of life, where the deceased are put to rest, is instead where Flins' new life began.
So no, the curiosity he garners from humans is not one he likes to feed. It is something he starves in the worry of ruining his facade.
Flins finds that he prefers it that way, maintaining this air of mystery instead. It certainly makes his job easier to do, with far less eyes watching his every movement. He works best from the shadows, after all, where the light cannot find him.
So he slips into this little game of pretend, one that he's come to rather enjoy over the years. He maintains the appearance of a human in order to blend in, wears the soft smile of an endeared man around his comrades, lives much like they would.
Acting as a human, hiding his true nature, has not been easy by any means. There are many little human habits he’s had to adopt—like eating and sleeping to start. One too many concerned stares when he avoided meals revealed that food would be a crucial part to his pretending. Though despite not actually being able to eat the meals offered, he’s learned to appreciate the simple act of sitting down with others to eat, a highlight. But sleeping… he doesn’t enjoy it as much, rather he's come to be displeased with it. Some nights are sleepless, as unwanted memories sweep through his dreams, twisting them into nightmares. On those nights, he takes to resting in his lantern instead. He has no idea how humans sleep like that, with so much background noise and ghosts to haunt them even in the darkness of slumber.
However, there is one thing in all of this that Flins wasn’t prepared for.
Human experience itself.
He hadn’t realized just how overwhelming it could be, with so many thoughts and emotions to hold onto, to tuck inside his chest. It was no easy adjustment.
The experience he had upon rising from his slumber alone was encompassing, emotions wrapping around him and suffocating as air filled his lungs once more. Transitioning from an empty void of nothingness to the living world was… jarring. For so long, he hadn’t felt anything. How could he, in such a sleep? It had been peaceful for quite some time, a serene emptiness that cradled him close and welcomed him. There was simply nothing to feel. To experience.
Human life had been nothing like that, the exact opposite. Not only was it challenging, but there was a new emotion to experience nearly everyday—curiosity, fondness, amusement, pity, sorrow, guilt.
Yet grief was the hardest one. Grief was perhaps the one emotion that never grew easier to carry. To live.
Grief and loss simply go hand in hand, Flins had always understood this concept. Yet understanding it and experiencing it were two very different things, he came to learn. His first dance with grief, with Death, was the night that set everything into motion. He was left alone on the battlefield, standing amongst the fallen—humans and creatures alike. The azure light of his flames, his lantern, the only evidence of those dying wishes being heard. All Flins could do was stare. And that’s when he had felt it.
An ache.
It followed him as he carried both their bodies and the weight of their loss as the sole survivor. It dug deep into his chest as he was awarded a medal; spilling into his fabricated bones and sinking until there was no part of him untouched by it. Grief made a home inside his heart, weighing it down with a heaviness that no amount of rest could erase. It was permanent, sinking its claws into him until it left marks on his soul. Sharp nails dug into him, ripping open healing wounds every time a comrade was lost, every time his eyes lingered on those ghosts for a bit too long.
That human emotion, grief, only grew in the face of every new loss. It was inevitable, with the Lightkeepers being so determined to fight, to protect. Any patrol, any mission, could easily be a person’s last, making death an inescapable companion. Over the years, Flins had lost many comrades, both well known and estranged.
Death became sorrowful, a haunting but familiar face. One could say he became it's handler as his lantern guided comrades and strangers alike to safety, steering Death away from them while guiding those passed. His past may be something long buried, but this part of himself was something he could never quite cut away. For it is impossible to ignore the calls of his comrades, the pleas for the Lantern Fae's aid. Is it not his lantern's purpose, even after this rebirth of his? Protecting human life is something he swore to do upon taking the oath of a Ratnik.
(Although at times it is… tiring. It is an exhausting reminder, a thought that when pondered for too long, may draw him back to that old altar. Flins doesn't find much to gain from recalling it.)
He is an observer of both life and death, in this regard. Flins is no stranger to it, of course not, wearing death like a cloak around his shoulders. It is an ever present shadow that looms over him, following him wherever he goes. It lives with him in the form of old graves and lonely souls. It is a cycle that repeats over and over, and Flins is witness to it all. He sees it reflected back at him in the eyes of those lost to the Wild Hunt, the claws that reach for him to consume and extinguish. He's seen it claim the lives of fellow Lightkeepers, creating waves of that impossibly heavy emotion for the ones left behind.
Yet in the face of death, human determination prevails.
It's a fascinating and inspiring thing. And perhaps, it's almost funny. Those around him many years ago yearned for a limitless life, an eternity, a concept he personally had little interest in. But watching these humans, fighting alongside them, he sees how they fight as hard as they can for life. They take up their weapons, their Visions, stand tall against the creatures of the darkness for those who cannot.
They allow hope and life guide them, pushing them towards a better tomorrow. And suddenly Flins wasn't looking at the lust for eternity, but the desire to live.
To say the least, he had not only approved, but wanted to see where such beliefs would take them. If Death was something that could crumble in the face of humanity, perhaps it was something worth sticking around to witness.
So he found a part for himself, a Ratnik, a Lightkeeper. He's found humans to follow and aid, ghosts to accompany and live alongside (and perhaps there is a sense of duty, responsibility, a guilt at being the only one alive amongst the graves of many, that draws him in). The lighthouse on Final Night Cemetery makes for the perfect abode, solitary but still a lighting guide. He had comrades, ones he could rely on, trust in. He regarded them all with that same polite smile, keeping the line firm and straight.
He's taken up his post, lighting the way for the souls of those lost and afraid, standing tall amidst the sea of fog while protecting the living.
For a time, Flins was content with this. It was… enough.
That is, until, early one morning a new Light appears before him in the form of shining dark eyes laced with gentle determination.
It starts with a knock on the door, one that leaves Flins quite confused. Nikita hadn't sent word that he'd be coming by, at least not for another few days. On instinct, his eyes trail over to the pile of half finished reports on the table with a weary glance before opening the door. Yet before him does not stand the current Starshyna, but an unfamiliar figure. It's a young man, one with silver hair and red undertones, a long coat covering his frame. He has with him a box which is held in his arms and he meets Flins' gaze without a moment of hesitation.
There's a stubborn crease between his brows, yet polite curiosity along his lips. The thick, bulky lantern at his side silently announces his role as a Lightkeeper, and Flins recognizes him after a moment. He's seen the young man in passing before, albeit their first meeting had been quite brief. It lacked an exchange of names or a proper greeting. Just a simple, "Go inside. The old man is waiting for you."
It seems Nikita had made up his mind, then.
Illuga, the young man's name was, if Flins remembers correctly. Still, his sudden appearance here takes him by surprise. It isn't odd for other Lightkeepers to be sent to the Final Night Cemetery to provide Flins with paperwork or pickup urgent reports. Usually it's Nikita himself who does it, but a quick glance tells that the man is nowhere to be found; a curious thing indeed. His gaze returns to Illuga, waiting.
The moment their eyes meet, Flins finds a flicker of amusement in his chest.
(Oh my, he had thought then, this one looks like trouble.)
"Hello," the young man greets, his voice warm with an edge of firm softness. Despite being a new recruit, there's an eager but benign confidence to him, a need to prove himself that he speaks with. "I'm Illuga, I'm a member of the Lightkeepers logistics squad. Mr. Flins, yes?"
Without his permission, the corners of Flins' lips twitch up, quirking. "You haven't happened to see any other living soul around the cemetery, have you?" he questions instead, purely teasing as his tone carries his jest.
It appears the young man is caught off guard by his response, for his eyes widen a fraction, lips parting with surprise. Quickly does he school his expression, attempting to hide his reaction for something professional, "I haven't, no." He shakes his head. "I was told that no one else lives here besides you."
"Ah, then it seems you have indeed found who you're looking for." Flins crosses an arm over his chest, the other neatly placing itself behind his back as he politely bows. "An honor to make your acquaintance. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Illuga straightens at the question, as if remembering the box he carries with him. The streak of determination returns to his stare, gleaming like sunlight catching on glass. "I'm here to deliver supplies." He gestures to the crate in his arms. "Pops wanted me to bring over some documents too." Quiet concern catches Flins then, an almost interesting development. He doesn't know much about Illuga besides his name, and that's he's Nikita's boy. But one look at the other tells of his heart worn sleeve, the kind that extends worry even to a stranger such as himself.
It's… painfully human.
What could this young man possibly have to be worried over him for? He is quite accustomed to the concern from his fellow Lightkeepers, those he's worked with before or frequently seen. But is it truly so common for humans to care about a man never met? Flins offers a quiet hum in the face of such a display. "I see," he responds lightly. He reaches for Illuga's hand, holding it up between them. A strange noise escapes his fellow Lightkeeper as Flins moves, bringing it over to his lips. Holding Illuga's hand like this, he can smell the rich leather scent of his gloves, thick with rich earthy tones. His eyes stare up at Illuga as he presses a gentle kiss to his hand, polite smile upon his face. "Allow me to extend my sincerest gratitude for such kindness."
To his endless amusement, Illuga doesn't look impressed in the slightest. Instead, he slowly looks Flins up and down, stare nothing but scrutinizing. "It's really nothing, Mr. Flins," he says, still maintaining that even, polite tone as he pulls his hand back from Flins' grasp. "Just uh, show me where to place this and I'll be out of your hair."
Flins shakes his head, apologetic. "I'm afraid these supplies would only be wasted on someone like myself," he lightly protests. "There are surely other Lightkeepers who could do with a visit."
The edges of Illuga's lips dip down, brows furrowing slightly. "Sorry, Mr. Flins, but I can't in good conscience leave you with no supplies. It wouldn't be right," he says. "Besides, pops mentioned that it's been a while since anyone has checked on you here. I can only imagine how low on stock you must be." It's a quick second, but his eyes flit past Flins into the doorway, sneaking a glance at the sliver of the lighthouse's interior. "Someone should check in and make sure you're still alive, after all. You're so far from headquarters…"
Something strikes Flins at that, certainly piquing his interest. Illuga, despite still being so fresh to the duty of a Lightkeeper, carries himself with a confident air of politeness. He pushes back but doesn't become condescending or rude. It isn't hard to miss the curiosity brimming within the young man either, not with the way Flins spots it lying in the depths of blue irises, lining the edges of his eyes. Who wouldn't be curious about one's elusive and mysterious colleague? That curiosity Illuga holds, it makes Flins himself curious, oddly enough. This is hardly the first time his attention has been grabbed by a human, but something about Illuga is… different. Flins can't put his finger on it yet.
So, he does something he usually doesn't.
He allows himself to crack an amused smile, something light and small. "Very well then," Flins concedes, mirthful tone ringing in his voice. "Since you've traveled such a far distance, you must be parched. Might I offer a drink?"
Illuga does a double take, bright blue eyes widening some. "Oh, I'm alright Mr. Flins," he denies with a gentle shake of his head. "Please, don't trouble yourself on my account."
"I insist." Flins steps back to politely invite the Lightkeeper inside, gentle smile still curling along his lips. "Allow me to pour you a nice glass of water."
Perhaps there was one exception to his dislike for the curious.
Flins sees Illuga sparsely over the next year or so. The two of them are quite busy with their Lightkeeper duties, finding most of their time taken up by the Wild Hunt. Besides the supplies run that Illuga does every few months, Flins rarely has the opportunity to meet with him. He doesn't think much about it, seeing as they aren't exactly close, simply friendly. That isn't to say their conversations haven't been enjoyable or insightful. When they do have time to converse, it's rich with Illuga's curiosity and Flins' stories. He's not quite sure why, but he's landed on sharing pieces of his past with the other, framing it as history.
It's entertaining, and almost painfully endearing how Illuga soaks it all up like a sponge, feeding his curiosity.
(And if Flins leaves these stories on cliffhangers to ensure that Illuga comes to visit again, who's to say?)
Some have been brief due to the duties of a Lightkeeper, while others have gone on for hours at a time. Though their meetings sparse, Flins would say the quality makes up for it. He's discovered pieces of Illuga, his deep care for his comrades, his strength and courage to face the shadows that appear to haunt him. In some ways, it's inspiring. In others, Flins can't help but pity him. So young and yet it's clear that he shoulders quite a bit already. He can see how Illuga tries to carry it all, as if trying to prove his worth despite it already being known—to everyone but himself, it appears. And perhaps that's to be expected, not even the Sun would know how important it is after the rain, but those who bask in its light find comfort in it.
It is no surprise then, that Illuga is eventually moved to the investigation squad.
Flins had been lucky enough to hear it from him directly, when Illuga came by the lighthouse to bring supplies. There was a determined and eager look in his eyes, much like when they first met. However, Flins had noticed how he seemed lost in his thoughts during his visit, enthusiastic as always yet distant.
("My, the Young Master certainly seems distracted today. Has something happened?"
"I was put on the investigation squad a few days ago," Illuga had said, glancing at him as he set the supplies down. There was certainly excitement in his words, but it seemed as though it was being clouded by something else. Something… heavier. "I guess I'm still processing it all."
"Is that not a good thing?" Flins raised a brow. "Or are you displeased?"
Illuga shook his head. "No, no. It's nothing like that. I couldn't be happier, really. I finally have a chance to really do my part for the Lightkeepers." His brows pulled together, and Flins waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts. "Maybe I'm a little nervous to have my abilities tested."
There were far more emotions than just that, far more twisting thoughts and that empty, bottomless void to explain. But Illuga didn't mention any of it, just as Flins pretended not to see that there was clearly other things occupying the young Ratnik's mind. Instead, he looked at Illuga sincerely, "I am confident that if anyone should be tested in their strength and courage, you would surely pass with flying colors, Young Master.")
Only it seems those words would be a piece of the puzzle that is Illuga's heavy-laden grief.
It takes a month for Flins to hear anything, lost in the motions of extra patrols and the isolation of Final Night Cemetery. He hears of it upon visiting Piramida to see Starshyna Nikita, catching the whispers of a dreadful ambush. He gets bits and pieces of the details—the Nightmare Orioles suffered many casualties, the entire squad nearly wiped out, Kipumaki Cliff sealed off. He hears a few murmurs of Illuga's name, and finds himself frowning in concern. Any business Flins had planned to discuss with Nikita is swiftly set aside in favor of learning what happened.
And it is far from a happy tale.
Nikita's dark eyes shine with pain, with grief. He carries the guilt a father has for sending his son to a war he never wanted him to fight in. "I'm sorry," he sighs, regarding Flins. "I know this isn't what you came here to discuss."
"There will be another time for that," Flins says. This is far more pressing than patrol reports and new routes. He has a greater concern now. "How is he?" he questions instead, having not seen a hint of Illuga anywhere. It feels strange to not see him. The human is usually running all over Piramida for one thing or another.
"Burying himself in work, for one. If he's not working, he's hiding away to shut us all out." Nikita shakes his head. "He's quite… melancholy. It's hard watching him grieve like this."
Flins offers a quiet hum in understanding.
"Could you keep an eye on him, Flins?" a worried father asks. "Maybe you'll have more luck getting through to him."
"Of course," Flins agrees, as if he hadn't already planned on searching for Illuga himself. He quietly excuses himself, disappearing just as he first appeared in Nikita's office. He's careful as he leaves, avoiding being seen while searching for Illuga. He'd like to prevent anyone from stopping him to talk, but it wouldn't do him any good to be caught by a fellow Lightkeeper either.
Discrete, his search leads him around Piramida, looking for any hint of silver-red hair. He doesn't find him, not even an echo of his voice as he sheepishly accepts gratitude from someone. So Flins searches elsewhere, and manages to find him—sitting amongst the graves of his fallen squad mates. It's a terribly sad sight to lay his eyes upon, and Flins feels his chest tighten, as if someone has reached inside to twist him up. The emotion is heavy and thick, as he remembers himself in a very similar position years ago. When the world felt so foreign and new, Flins often found himself sitting with the ghosts of his comrades, heart aching with grief and confusion.
Slowly, he takes a few steps toward Illuga, alerting the Lightkeeper to his presence. He puts one foot in front of the other, boots crushing leaves beneath his feet.
It doesn't take long for Illuga to notice him.
He sits up some, tearing his gaze away from the gravestones before him. Crimson-cobalt eyes meet golden-yellow, and Illuga's mouth parts in surprise. "Sir Flins..?" he questions, sounding puzzled. His stare lingers for a moment before he glances at the graves. "Are you here to pay your respects?" His voice quiets some, taking on a somber note as the words leave him.
Gently does Flins shake his head. "My own comrades rest elsewhere," he hums. With Illuga's acknowledgement, he walks over to join him, maintaining a careful distance. His eyes rest solely on the graves, an easy lie slipping out, "This place was built to house fallen comrades from the past ten years or so. Starshyna Nikita requested that I look around to see if there is anything here in need of repair." His lips quirk up in a small smile, some morbid, amused thing. "I spend most of my time around graves, after all—I've become something of an expert," Flins jokes lightly, intending to perhaps alleviate even the slightest bit of heaviness for the other.
It doesn't do much of anything—it doesn't even get him so much as a smile from the melancholic human. The atmosphere remains heavy and thick in its grief, full of that rumbling turmoil and bubbling confusion. It's a gloomy sight to witness, the way Illuga seems to be drowning himself in loss, in guilt.
Silence hangs between them for a few moments, the only sound being the gentle breeze that sweeps past them. It ruffles their hair, strands swaying lightly along with it. Flins gives Illuga his space, refraining from forcing any kind of response from him. The last thing he wants is to force the other into speaking when he isn't ready.
Although he doesn't have to wait long, for Illuga fully turns to face him, conflict swirling in the tightness of his expression. His eyebrows are furrowed, he chews on his bottom lip, hesitating. "Sir Flins…" he starts, pausing. He bites his lip then, and Flins finds himself feeling an urge to gently pry it away so that he may avoid causing it to bleed. He promptly ignores it as Illuga speaks again, "In your opinion, which is more unforgivable of a Lightkeeper: recklessness or cowardice?"
Flins tilts his head, does he think himself a coward? The fact that Illuga stands before him today, facing the very nightmare that took everything from him says it all. Then again, he supposes he can understand. Isn't it normal to reflect on these things and wonder why it was you who survived and not someone else? To question and criticize yourself? In the face of loss, what more is there to do than wonder what you could've done to avoid it?
He frowns, a gentle downturned curve of his lips, as he looks at Illuga, and wants to ease it. "I'm afraid the premise of your question may be a bit misguided, to join the Lightkeepers is itself a testament to courage," Flins answers, watching the way Illuga's brows unfurl slightly. "And as a steadfast, upright Lightkeeper, what reason would you have to doubt your choices derive from a sense of justice?"
"What if it wasn't?" Illuga asks once again. "What if it was just… selfishness?"
"Allow me to ask then, Young Master. Was it your life you were considering that day? Or theirs?" Flins answers with a question of his own. He knows that there isn't a selfish bone in Illuga's body—both from what he's experienced first hand, and what others have said about him.
Illuga briefly regards him with a puzzled expression. "My squadmates." The answer comes so quickly that Flins has to smile some.
"Is that not answer enough to the kind of person you are?" Flins hums. Simply pointing it out won't cure the guilt that's gnawing at the young man, but he can only hope it offers him a bit of clarity.
There's a change in Illuga's face, a darkness in his eyes that lifts, and the blue of his irises shines brighter than before. The flame in him rekindles some, as Flins' words are like kindling. Tension slowly seeps out of him like flowing water, lingering doubt clinging to him like droplets. It won't wash away immediately, but Flins knows that with time it will dry up.
"Thank you, Flins." Illuga offers him a grateful look, and Flins nods in return. "You're surprisingly good at pep talks." It relieves him to see the other react positively to his words, to have eased his worry some.
"Should there be anything you wish to talk about, come by the lighthouse. We can play some cards, or catch fish." Flins isn't sure why he suggests it, why he invites Illuga in outside of their routine meetings. Illuga is human curiosity wrapped up in a ball of warmth, one that he by all means, should avoid. But instead, he wants to know more of him, to bring him closer. Flins… enjoys his company. His companionship. And the little smile Illuga grants him makes such an offer worth it.