Chapter Text
A twinge pricks at Flins’ chest.
Placing his teacup onto the table, he absentmindedly rubs at a spot below his neck and nearly under the edge of his cape. The thick black fabric of his coat rustles against his blue gemstone and silver broach. He hums and licks his thumb, holding it in the air. Despite the fabric, he can feel the wind shifting against his skin, Kuuvakhi bending around his body as it blows past him in the breeze.
One of Flins’ periphery wards has vanished.
Flins stands, the wooden legs of his chair scraping against the ground. No added abyssal power greets him when he walks outside and he breathes a small sigh of relief. The Wild Hunt would have been the worst possible option, although they don’t often appear anywhere near Final Night Cemetery as if even they have recognized the lighthouse as a necessary sanctuary for their foes. In truth, it’s a combination of Flins’ warding and the Lightkeepers’ diligence.
The wind changes again, warm against Flins’ cheeks and carrying with it the sound of singing.
A decidedly human sound of singing.
Flins doesn’t recognize the tune but can’t be sure that whoever is singing in such a booming baritone does either. The tone of voice rules out young master Illuga, who wouldn’t have been able to undo one of Flins’ wards regardless. Illuga cannot even sense their presence.
Impossibly, the sound grates against and soothes his hearing in equal measure, reminding Flins of the few times he has stayed with other ratniki after encountering the Wild Hunt, their songs a tangle of Snezhnayan, Fontainian, Natlanese, and the native languages of Hyperborea. This song similarly belongs around a campfire or at a tavern. The language itself is foreign to Flins’ ears and still he understands instinctively. Holding up his lantern, Flins peers over the crest of the hill and down towards the crashing waves on the shore.
There is a man stumbling drunkenly up towards the cemetery.
“Hullo there!” he slurs in Flins’ general direction.
The greeting is punctuated by a wave so large, the man nearly falls over from the effort. He rights himself enough to heft the heavy-looking red claymore on his back almost as if, in his stupor, he had forgotten that he was carrying it at all and now having remembered it has recognized the weapon as a steadying weight. A laugh escapes the man’s lips and he winks at Flins, eyes glowing blue in the moonlight.
“I seem to have mip— misplaced my luggage,” the man says, “and the light brought me here.”
The man has likely misplaced more than luggage if the dirt and blood on his coat are of any indication. This would explain the tripped and dispelled ward, but not the man’s presence. A simple drunken fool should have heard a quiet but persuasive voice leading them out of danger and away from the island. This man, due to his presence here and not elsewhere, has somehow ignored a strong magical suggestion.
“You are a long way from home,” Flins replies. He means it like a question but delivers it like a statement.
“Jus’ a bit,” the man says with a lopsided grin, as if this is the happiest news he has heard in some time. “Where am I exactly?”
“Do you enjoy being lost?” Humans are often odd creatures. Flins has met many Ratniki with far odder proclivities than wandering aimlessly, although he’s still not certain that this man is human. He did breeze past Flins’ wards.
“Ah-ah!”
The man wags his finger in Flins’ face in the same manner with which one would chide a child. His eyes sharpen and his drunken manner melts into the night wind, leaving a sober and confident man in its wake. “Just because I don’t know where I am, doesn’t mean that I’m lost.”
“Is not the definition of ‘lost’ not knowing where one is or how to find one’s way?”
“You can hear loads of things about a place without visiting it,” the man responds sagely. “And you can visit a place without knowing anything about it.”
“Are you, by any chance, Snezhnayan?” Flins asks, trusting the man to pick up on his meaning right away. If the man is a Fatuus, it would go a long way towards explaining the man’s initial deceit. The location is also fitting, given the Fatui’s eyesore of a facility looming on the horizon. Flins sweeps his eyes across the man’s massive blue greatcoat. He doesn’t recognized the coat of arms on the man’s chest, but the make and style are nothing like those of the Fatui.
Throwing his head back, the man laughs with his entire body. To Flins, it’s almost as if the man’s already-large presence has increased exponentially, taking away all of the air.
Squinting, Flins follows the path of Kuuvakhi as it moves around the man. Rather than avoiding the man’s body — like it does with Flins himself until Flins calls upon it for a task — it surrounds him like a second greatcoat. If the man notices the immense power swirling around him, he doesn’t acknowledge it in any way.
“Mondstadter actually.” The man sticks out his hand in Flins’ direction with obvious purpose, the metal crest on his shoulder jingling loudly as he moves. His grip is strong and warm around Fins’ fingers. The size of his hand dwarfs Flins’ own. “Varka’s the name.”
“Varka,” Flins repeats, releasing the man’s hand. He’s heard the name whispered over hands of cards and mugs of drink on cold sleepless nights. Varka, a travelling Knight of the Favonius Order, rumoured Knight of Boreas. Flins knows little of what that means, but is familiar enough with titles in the abstract to recognize its importance and, even if he had not, Varka’s formidable presence — now that he’s no longer pretending to be drunk — speaks to a grand story.
“Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins of the Lightkeepers,” he says, nodding his head in Varka’s direction.
“Should I call you Kyryll Chudomirovich then?”
Raising an eyebrow at Varka’s knowledge of Snezhnayan patronymics, Flins stares. Varka returns it with a handsome grin, not intimidated in the slightest. The wind chooses this specific time to gust through the space between them, bringing with it the scent of frostlamp flowers from the graves.
“You may call me Flins.”
Varka nods. “Sorry for the initial performance,” he says with a wave of his hand and another broad smile. “Thought I’d have a better chance at help by acting like a foolish tourist.”
This makes little sense to Flins; however, he recognizes that pressing Varka on it now will lead him nowhere and humans are frequently nonsensical, especially ones considered to be “great” by other humans. Varka is certainly a dangerous man but he’s no danger to Flins.
“I wasn’t lying about the lost luggage though,” Varka adds when Flins doesn’t say anything in response. “Anything you’d be willing to give would be much appreciated.”
Turning towards the lighthouse, Flins lifts his lantern above his head. It feels no different than any other night and the lack of resonance with the few shattered Wild Hunt shards firmly rules out any Abyssal presence, leaving Flins to accept that Varka is likely exactly who he claims to be. “Follow me.”
*****
“Regrettably, I only have water and tea,” Flins tells Varka as the door creaks shut behind them. “I recently returned from an excursion and haven’t yet had time to restock supplies.” The lie slips from his tongue with a smile as he reaches for a small shelf above his portable camping stove for the lone tin of Sneznhayan black tea in his kitchen area.
If the other man is as smart and as dangerous as Flins recognizes him to be, Varka will have already realized something odd about a larder and pantry with no food or alcohol. Flins shifts the bottle of vodka, a gift from Ratnik Pyotr, out of Varka's sight.
Varka makes a show of leaning his claymore against the wall and wiping his muddy boots on the straw mat Flins had placed at the entryway on a whim. This is only the second time it has been used for its intended purpose, with Flins never tracking in dirt due to his nature and Illuga having been his sole visitor.
“Tea is fine. I see you’re familiar with Miss Aino.” Varka tilts his head in the direction of the colourful stove, its knobs bearing Aino’s signature heart design in yellow and pink paint.
“Young Mistress Aino leaves her mark,” Flins says with genuine affection. “She calls this one the…Flicker-Flare Pancake Maker. I never leave to track down the Wild Hunt without it. You sound familiar with her handiwork as well.”
Snorting, Varka leans against the counter so his body remains facing Flins. Outside, Varka had already appeared much larger than the average human but now inside, he makes Flins’ meagre living area look like a child’s miniature.
“Sadly,” Flins continues, “it is partially the fault of Young Mistress Aino that I lack honey cake or fruit to offer you with your tea. I have been paying her in sweets for her help with fixing our lanterns on the paths around Blue Amber Lake.”
Varka laughs again, a ruddy flush appearing on his cheeks in the warm lamp light. “That sounds like a fault of your own more than a fault of Aino’s. Ineffa can’t be too happy with you.”
“Perhaps.”
“It’s hard not to indulge her hunh?”
“It is remarkably difficult.”
With a satisfied hum, Varka claps Flins on the back and sits down at the small wooden table. The heat from Varka’s hand lingers, leaving Flins to wonder if the man is running a fever.
“I have a few extra Ratniki camping kits in that cupboard,” Flins says, remembering that Varka had claimed that the lost luggage was not a part of his initial lie. Pouring the hot water with one hand, Flins points at an ancient chest that he had turned on its side to use for storage. “Please, help yourself.”
“Danke!”
Varka sounds surprised at the idea that Flins is offering him anything at all and Flins frowns, wondering what he had done to make the other man believe he would not follow through on his word. Surely he doesn’t come across as completely standoffish.
“It means ‘thank you’ in Mondstadtian,” Varka adds, incorrectly guessing the source of Flins’ frown. He winks at Flins again, this time over his shoulder, as he pulls out a bedroll, a lantern, and a collapsed tent. “I owe you a favour.”
When Flins moves to place a steaming mug of tea on the table, Varka has already strapped the entire kit to his back. “I won’t take up any more of your time then.”
“At least stay for some tea,” Flins asks, leaning on expectations of polite behaviour and hospitality. Varka has given him few windows through which to observe or glean any information, leaving Flins reluctantly impressed. Gathering information from his surroundings his one thing, but gathering information from people or actual espionage has never been Flins’ strongest suit.
Despite his own inability to taste feel the pain from scalding heat, Flins winces as he watches Varka down the entire cup of tea without allowing it to cool. Varka slams the mug onto the table as one would after draining a draught of ale with friends at The Flagship.
“Thank you.”
“You are most welcome,” Flins responds, unable to say much of anything else after Varka’s display.
Varka draws close and places his hand on Flins’ shoulder. “May the wind guide you.” Whatever look Flins has on his face makes Varka laugh. He gives Flins’ shoulder a tight squeeze before stepping through the door, collecting his claymore with a sweep of his arm. “It’s a blessing of Mondstadt.”
“It was a genuine pleasure to meet your acquaintance,” Flins replies, finding that he means it more than he had initially thought he would, inviting Varka into his home.
Flins watches until Varka’s large back and even larger claymore disappear over the hill and into the night. Raising his thumb, he licks it again and turns in the direction of his broken ward. He has to recast it before sunrise.
*****
To: Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins
Final Night Cemetery
Our Acting Grand Master would have my head if I didn’t apologize for my poor behaviour and thank you for your hospitality. Nod Krai can be an unforgiving and hostile place and your lighthouse was a refreshing change of pace from the taverns I usually stay in. I’ll return the Ratniki camping kit whenever I can. I’m not sure when I’ll be headed your way next. Until then, I would like to start up a regular correspondence with you. I’ve always found it helpful to make as many friends during my travels as possible and I could use more friends in Nod Krai.
May the wind guide you.
-Varka
“A correspondence?” Flins says aloud, somewhat amused by Varka’s insistence on keeping up the façade of a lost drunk tourist. Briefly, he wonders if the hideously ugly handwriting is also a part of Varka’s farce, or if that’s simply how Varka writes. The words themselves speak of someone who has been taught court manners and is purposefully ignoring them for their own amusement.
The ghost that usually nests in between a children’s anthology of Sneznhayan folktales and the first volume of twelve in a dictionary series taps softly onto the wooden floor in response and Flins smiles over a shooing motion with his hand. The ghosts never mean harm, but at the timely appearance of this one, Flins cannot help but wonder at what Varka found “refreshing” in a drafty haunted lighthouse.
Turning the paper around, Flins narrows his eyes at the absence of writing on the other side. He places it onto his writing desk, smoothing out the creases with his fingertips. “Why?”
Neither the ghosts nor the wind have answers for him tonight.
Flins pens a letter to Nefer first, and then sets about answering Varka.