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"We've won.”
That is what Illuga tells him, smile bright like the rising sun sewing itself between the waves of Piramida. Satisfied, relieved, radiant. And yet Flins cannot find any these things in himself when he looks for them too. No, it's strange. Flins only feels a hollowness open up in his chest, an empty pocket no bigger than a coin. It's not cold nor warm. It isn't painful per say but it is distinct, something in-ignorable, and it certainly isn't happy like he should be.
Flins deliberates if something is wrong with him. The Wild Hunt is eradicated, it's been months since they've seen even the lowliest shambling corpse. And Dottore is now an unwilling test subject to the maggots in his coffin. Him and all of his segments were upended by the Traveler and their impressive (if unconventional) span of allies. One would think Flins should be overjoyed too after bearing witness to the many tragedies he has over his life. Things are going arguably well—no, better than well. They're great.
Now that its official, maybe the Lightkeepers will be signing their names on housing agreements rather than the bottom of reports. Their priorities will shift to lighting their children's bed table candles rather than the lanterns to scare away the foulest dark. Humans he fought so ardently to aid and protect, will finally be able to live normal lives.
These should be reasons for celebration. The suffering, centuries of suffering is all coming to end and an era of impending peace is now on the rising horizon the Lightkeepers fought so hard to see. So why does Flins have this coin of emptiness in his chest? And why is it so distinct?
☆ - ☆
Flins can sense the rot of abyss even as shredded as it is after being torn out of the moon's reflection a second time. Rerir is at Final Night Cemetery. He just shows up one day a few weeks after Illuga declares their victory, sitting on the shore of the beach and staring at the tide as it comes in and out. Quite frankly, Flins isn't sure how to feel about Rerir on Lightkeeper territory, but the Sinner did lend significant and weighty aid during the final fight against Dottore. With this in mind, Flins elects to at least not lead with a blood blackened spear.
For now.
"Are you in need of something?" Flins ventures closer after the third day of finding Rerir in the same spot, standing himself at the ceasefire where windswept grass turns to sandy wake. A healthy distance in case Rerir has something planned and yet even this far Flins's nose still can detect the smell of brine, sweat, and ruined linens. Just what has he been up to since his disappearance? Does Dainsleif even know he’s back?
Rerir doesn't answer, not at first. He barely reacts when the tide bubbles at his thighs, surging and sluicing over the soaked skin. If anything he settles, body losing tension as if he is resigned and ready to accept what comes. Flins eyes study the line of damp sand, how it cuts several feet farther back from where Rerir sits. So that's it.
"You will have to go deeper if your intention has any conviction.”
To his surprise, Rerir laughs—a bitter, dying thing. Then he speaks, voice waterlogged and salt scrubbed to implicate a concerning amount of attempts already under his belt. "The curse denies that which I seek. I've come to see if you would rise to the occasion.”
"I am no executioner tonight. You'll have to seek an end by other means." And though Flins does not wait for such, he gets no reply in return. It is grossly negligent, but he turns his back after and scales the meager hill to the lighthouse. Why he does it, he can't say. The coin-shaped apathy argues that Rerir is not a threat and judging by the state of him, Flins is inclined to entertain its hypothesis, at least for now. Should he be wrong, he will do his duty as a Lightkeeper—probably the last Lightkeeper duty Nod-Krai will ever see.
But Flins can recognize when an animal seeks to end its own misery, stared at it in his own reflection on these very shores hundreds of years ago. Rerir no longer wishes to fight nor does it seem he wishes to do harm to others. On top of that, Miss Columbina’s determination of his sanity getting strained free from the abyssal rot seems to hold water. He by no means sane, but he’s not rambling and raving and chasing shadows of a dream. What broke the camels back is anyone's guess. The Sinner has no short amount of shame to sift through so Flins leaves him to sort out the pieces under the light of a full moon.
☆ - ☆
Flins isn't sure what to do with himself. With the Wild Hunt ‘officially’ gone, the amount of patrols are greatly reduced each day, so much so that several days will span before his next shift. The Lightkeepers he runs into out in the field seem more carefree than Flins is used to. He even catches a few pairs dozing or idly exchanging flasks of booze. They ask Flins what he plans to do now that they've won. Does he have any other trades or talents? Will he try going to school for something? Will he leave Nod-Krai? Flins smiles and says he hasn't quite figured it out yet, and it's true. He really doesn't know what he'll do next.
For now, it is early enough that they still accept this answer. The only thing Flins seems to know is he can't lean on the crutch of indecision indefinitely. And that makes that coin sized pocket of emptiness bloat.
When he returns back to the Lighthouse on the mornings he does leave, Rerir is still there on the shore. Once or twice, he's shifted to a different part of the island, but other than that the Sinner doesn't wander. Flins doesn't know how to articulate it, but seeing Rerir there makes time slow down. A blob of crimson sticking out among the bluey welkin is what lets Flins catch his breath, catch his footing.
Flins stops at the self fashioned monstrosity he insists is a mailbox, noting that the metal flag is skyward for once. He blinks a few times. Did one of the stronger winds push it out of its lax position? Curious and almost hesitant, he opens the door to reveal a letter tucked just inside. Now that is something. He hasn't gotten a letter in over four months.
Despite his increasing amount of lazy days, his compatriots haven't been able to say the same. The Frostmoon Scions are busy and buzzing as always to try and help Miss Columbina feel right at home. And the days Flins does make it down to Nasha Town, the Curatorium and the Clink-Clank Krumkake Craftshop flows from the lips of its denizens without end. Then there is the Knights. They've…all gone home—Varka and company taking a cricket ball size piece of Flins along with them.
Everyday it seems like Nod-Krai is a little emptier than Flins remembers. Even the Cemetery's occasional tourist or wandering visitors become less and less common.
Flins shakes off the fog and pulls the letter free, almost distractedly setting the flag back flat. Huh. Opening it reveals its from Illuga! How delightful! Flins gets through the first paragraph which is mostly apologies for not writing sooner and then the marginal sentence that follows stating he'll be coming by tomorrow to catch up and talk about the 'passion project' that's been keeping him away. It puts a pep in Flins step, one he hasn't felt in several months.
Cleaning the Lighthouse is a laborious affair, but what is to be expected when suddenly there are no humans popping in and out to make use of its appliances. The amount of spoiled rations Flins has to throw out is repulsive and even with no true stomach, the bugs and reak coming from the storage boxes they festered in makes his abdomen churn. Logically speaking, Flins supposes he could tell Illuga the truth of his nature, but just the thought makes his chest pound and heartbeat thump in his ears. No, no he doesn't want to let go of that. Everyday it feels like something slips through his fingers, he wants to keep just this one thing.
Is that so selfish of him?
Regardless of what Flins does, this place needs to be scrubbed. It is in not state to entertain the young master or any human for that matter. So with that in mind, Flins takes a bucket dry as a bone to the sink, hits the faucet and waits.
And waits.
And waits.
The faucet isn't working.
Flins blinks. That's never happened before. He turns the knob off and on again just to be sure, then alternates. Nothing. Not even a drop. This isn't good. Lighthouse be damned—if Flins can't get the water to run, how will he boil any for Illuga to drink? He could run to Nasha town and buy some water skins, but that will do nothing to solve the cleaning situation. He could keep Illuga outside, but it is the start of winter for archon's sake and Illuga is a human, he could catch a chill and if that happened Flins would never forgive himself.
Still, Flins doesn't get it. Illuga used to visit once a week to drop in on him, and on top of that sometimes travelers or even other Lightkeepers would pop in between then and the water always ran no problem. Why now? With a verbal huff, Flins angrily slams the faucets closed. The why, at least for now, doesn't matter. He needs a solution so he squats down, opening the cabinets that reveal the bowels of snaking pipelines.
Yes.
These are certainly pipes.
Flins stares yet that doesn't seem to fix the issue. Perhaps Miss Aino could be convinced in exchange for some treats to come out and look at it? Hopefully she is at home and not too busy with another project. They have a rapport by now, don't they? Even if she is very busy nowadays, maybe Flins could convince her to set it aside for a quick house call to an old friend. A plan in mind, he quickly locates his coat and keys, rushing out the door. Time is of the essence. It isn't until he's descending the hill of the Lighthouse that he sees a familiar hunch of crimson on the shore and finds his feet slowing to an unsteady stop.
'Khaenri'ah was a very technologically advanced nation in its hayday. Though it was obsessed with the idea of mimesis, their understanding of mechanical engineering was truly impressive.'
Flins swallows.
There is a chance he runs all the way down to Miss Aino only for her to not be home, or worse, be too busy to aid him in his plight. But here, right now, he has someone that most likely has the knowledge of how to fix a broken pipe. Even telling Flins what he needs would be extremely helpful and what are pipes if not mechanical? Aren't they?
Flins doesn't even realize he's approached until he hits that sandy ceasefire. He has to hold in his urge to gag. Even at this distance, the thick mineral dirge of low tide clings to the Sinner alongside a pervasive smell of decay. Salt has crusted over the sharp edges of Rerir's armor, dulling its glossier menace into a chalked, matte sheen and the crimson fabric of his cape has heavy and darkened, waterlogged and stiff like a defeated banner. Thin green threads of seaweed wrap around his ankles, flailing as the ocean repeatedly ebbs and flows around him.
"What?" Barely louder than a whisper. Rerir remains staring out into the ocean.
Flins swallows, looking back in the direction of the Lighthouse for only a moment. There is no shame in exhausting every option. "How much would you say you are informed on the matters of internal plumbing?”
For a long moment there is no response. Just the waves rushing around the Sinner and the wind in both their ears. Then Rerir turns in his seat, slow and baffled, tilting his head much like a dog that doesn't understand a command. "What?"
"The water has stopped coming up from the faucet. I fear it has broken down though from what I cannot say. I was told Khaenri'ahns are technologically inclined and am under the impression you used to own a home. Perhaps if you are not too busy sitting here, you could give it your attention." Flins waits, squeezing his hands where they're folded behind his back. It probably is best not to seem overeager.
Rerir continues to stare at him like he has two heads.
So Flins stares back—unblinking because that seems to be the game. Eventually his impatience wins out so he varnishes his features in a false veneer of ambivalence, and closes the distance. No more than a pace or two from the Sinner, Flins extends his hand to aid Rerir to his feet (should he need it) and continues to wait. And wait. And wait.
Finally there's a gargled noise, much like water bubbling up from a tap. Possibly a laugh? Metal claws sink into leather.
☆ - ☆
Flins can't keep the small smile that fights onto his features on and off as he watches Rerir squat in front of the sink. There is something so amusing about the idea that the former leader of the Wild Hunt is currently trying to fix his plumbing. Flins supposes now when it comes to that game revolving around two truths and a lie, he will have the best truth in his back pocket should he feel obliged to secure victory.
"Frozen," comes the diagnosis, Rerir getting to his feet. He throws a frown that is equally exhausted as it is aggravated at Flins, like this is somehow the fae's fault.
"So they're not broken then," he mutters, more for himself.
Rerir stares like Flins beyond help. "Isn't that what I just said? Did you develop a hearing problem?"
"I suppose I'm just confused. This has never happened before and I've lived here year round for quite sometime," Flins eyes stay rooted on the sink. "How does one circumvent the pipes freezing?"
Rerir moves past him, turning his body so they don't even bump and the rotting, foul brine of the ocean passes with him out the door. "Warm them up. And use them."
☆ - ☆
Illuga brings with him lots of news.
First of all, it's been decided that the Lightkeepers will begin shifting towards a more literal dedication to their namesake. Rather than battling the Wild Hunt, they will tend to the many lanterns across Nod-Krai and keep them burning. As such, Miss Aino's infrequent lectures have now become mandatory to attend and Lightkeepers will be evaluated on a pass-fail basis. Of course, Illuga was the front runner for Starshyna for good reason. He says that drills and boot camp trainings for Lightkeepers will still be an important part of the curriculum just in case peace doesn't last.
Second, and most curiously, Flins is handed the deed to Final Night Cemetery. His name is noted on the bottom as the title holder accompanied with a signed letter from Nikita informing him that this Lightkeeper asset has been transferred in full from the organization into Flins's personal hands.
That is a little stranger to swallow, especially when the cricket ball sized emptiness expands to a football.
Illuga describes granting Flins ownership of Final Night Cemetery as a fail-safe for the second phase of his plan for the Lightkeeper’s new era. In his view, the cemetery is a final resting place—a monument to the organization’s centuries-long struggle and sacrifice that should ultimately remain a private place.
Still, determined that no one’s efforts be forgotten, Illuga has taken on the task of carefully organizing their history into a form that is clear and accessible. He anticipates that travelers and scholars alike may one day seek out this knowledge. Any revenue generated from such visits would be directed toward supporting Miss Aino’s lectures, sustaining the remaining Lightkeeper volunteers’ salaries, and funding the materials needed to maintain the lanterns.
Ultimately, both Nikita and Illuga wanted to sign the cemetery over to Flins to ensure two things: that Flins would always have a place to call home, and that the resting dead would be protected from external disturbance. Nikita insisted that nobody could possibly take care of the cemetery better than Flins, and given that most recruits always fled from Final Night Cemetery as fast as they could the few times they needed to step onto the spooky land, who better to look after it than someone who Illuga has literally caught sleeping in the open air on numerous occasions.
How does Flins tell Illuga that the only reason he has caught the fae sleeping is because he hadn't done his paperwork and was trying to stall?
"How very gracious of you both." And yet Flins doesn't feel it. He stares down at the deed as if its written in another language. Maybe it's because another chapter of his life is coming to a close without his permission. First the Beyli Tsar's reign, now the Lightkeepers whom brought him out of his long slumber. What's worse is it feels like that second door is closing with Flins trapped inside. The humans he cares for so deeply are all running to move on and Flins is here, at the cemetery with all the ghosts of people that also couldn't run fast enough.
Hah. Perhaps Flins is just being dramatic. It's not like he will have nothing. He'll be maintaining the lanterns and Illuga will be coordinating those efforts. There will still be visitors or, maybe, he could venture out and find some amusements. Not to mention he has the Lighthouse—a home, which nobody will be able to take from him and friends scattered over the mainland he could drop in to see. He has so much he should be grateful for.
Shouldn't he?
Flins doesn't remember the rest of Illuga's visit, but he knows he sits on that metal bench long after the Captain has departed staring at ink and paper. Despite the letters remaining structurally intact, it feels like he looses his ability to comprehend the common language. All at once, Flins feels drained. Ennerved, even. He files away the letter and the deed under the Aarnivalkea headstone. It's the safest place he can think to keep it until he's ready.
Ready for what? The second that question hits his mind, he knows he needs to get out of this crypt.
He goes on a walk.
He's always been noctivagous on account of his profession, but this time, it is sheer restlessness that sets his bones to motion. Flins stalks the east length of Paha, and though it is a leisurely pace he doesn't dare stop. The wind coming off the water is sharp enough to pare skin from bone—it combs through his coat, presses salt against his face, and whistles low in his ears.
His boots carve deliberate lines into damp sand, only for the blackened tide to reach forward and erase them with patient indifference. He traces the same stretch again and again, as though clarity for his ungratefulness might be buried beneath repetition, as though this answer lies somewhere between two indistinguishable points of coastline.
The stars wheel overhead and the frost moon drifts westward, casting diluted silver across the water that makes the sea appear made of ash and steel. It isn't until the eastern sky starts to pale and the sun greets his cheek that Flins realizes the effort is futile.
And that emptiness he's been struggling to breathe around has taken up his whole chest.
Flins returns to Final Night Cemetery—numb, chilled and fatigued. Yes, even wisps can experience exhaustion and he has never felt so distinctly tired as he does tonight. The spirits are kind enough to ignore him, or keep their chattering to a minimum so as to not add to the already debilitating cacophony flooding up his head. He almost stumbles on his way up the beach, foot poised to hit the dead grass when a familiar bump of burgundy draws his attention.
Rerir.
Questions Flins can't catch swirl like a tornado of noise inside his head. Too many. Too loud. He doesn't want to think about them all. He just…wants…
Flins doesn't recall walking over, attention snapping back together like magnets as he plops himself down next to the Sinner. Quietly, Flins folds his legs crisscrossed and interlocking his hands in his lap. He stares at the ocean much like his compatriot, then closes his eyes and lets the sharp burn of salt scour his mind clean alongside the rot of the man next to him. It doesn't feel so noisy like this. It’s not as hard to breathe. He gets it now. He thinks he does at least.
Though Rerir doesn't speak, Flins can hear the scrape of his armor turn to look at him and even the question the Sinner doesn't voice. Flins doesn’t want to talk yet regardless of that desire, he obliges to answer all the same. At his core, he is and will always be, a gentleman.
"It was my understanding that this is where one comes when they are burdened by the weight of a future they never thought would exist and did not wish to discuss it.” A simple and clear declaration to disguise his gentle plea.
Rerir doesn't bother him after that and the pair sit in silence until the sun is at its apex. Only then, with the threat of the tide washing in does Flins get to his feet and head inside. He is still a flame after all. When he curls inside his lantern, nothing more than a little light, Flins realizes the emptiness is only just returning.
☆ - ☆
Sometimes Flins spends both low tides sitting with Rerir. There are no expectations, and just as much conversation which suits both their needs for the moment. Other times, Flins stays inside all day. He spends rotations of the minute hand by reading, trying to find interest in his bone puzzles, and inspecting his collections of gems and curios.
It's a Monday, or maybe a Thursday. Who knows the days are blurring together and Flins keeps forgetting to mark the calendar. What's the point. It’s the dead of winter now and patrols have completely halted. Miss Aino said she'd be reaching out when she's ready to lead a class (after rescheduling for the seventh time in a row).
Life is a stagnant pool.
Rain and wind pummel Final Night Cemetery mercilessly. The icy downpour is so thick that Flins can barely see to the coast and yet watching it is the only spot of entertainment he has to his name. Even the stray dog that used to visit to make exchanges for rations stopped coming by. Flins sighs, flames licking the glass of fire-water he poured himself.
Tap.
Tap. Tap.
Flins blinks, focusing back in to see a familiar golden bird tucked on the sill of the window. Aedon? What's he doing here? Illuga isn’t coming until tomorrow. Aedon aggressively taps at the window until Flins seems to snap out of his distracted thoughts and opens it, the little creature slipping in and comically shaking out it's false feathers all over the place. Well, at least Flins can clean up the drops now.
"Good evening. What brings you here, my friend?" Flins offers his hand and Aedon regurgitates a water speckled rolled note in the cradle of fingers. Gross. Well, given the weather it makes sense to keep it protected inside a case of geo, but Flins digresses. He unfurls it.
'Dear Lightkeeper Flins,
I hope all is well. I've been in contact with Aino and she is hoping to have class start sometime in the next two months. I can't wait to see you there! That being said, I would like to extend an apology. I will not be able to make it to Final Night Cemetery for our usual meeting. In my place…’
Flins stops reading.
Because Illuga is not coming.
It’s not the first time. It’s not even the third time, but the sixth time in the last three months. And it is that distinct weight of acknowledgement that shatters the camel’s already buckling spine.
Flins' vision flickers a funerary blue and the smell of smoke tickles his nose. How indecorous. He turns away quickly so Aedon doesn't see it, smothering the errant vapor escaping the corners of his eyes with the hell of his palm and grinding it into nothingness.
Illuga missed meetings when the Wild Hunt was a real and active threat, such was the life of the future Starshyna. Pulled seven ways to Sunday on a good day. His subordinates as well as those at Piramida could only hope Illuga found time to relax or for personal pleasures. Flins swallows. And yet despite it all, Illuga would rarely ever miss one of their meetings. He planned his schedule around them. Flins knows this because he may or may not have seen Illuga's planner sprawled open like a bird on its back and Flins' name the only thing hard lined into the calendar. And if he couldn't Illuga always—always offered to reschedule before anything else.
Perhaps Flins failed to regale him with a captivating enough cliffhanger the last time he came by? Could that be it? No, Illuga is far from that shallow. Maybe it's because Illuga and Nikita signed over the Lighthouse to Flins and therefore now this is Flins's personal property and he should be able to take care of himself. No, that can't be it either. Flins is thinking too hard…right?
Something bumps into his hand, drawing his attention back over his shoulder.
Aedon looks up at him, a curious burn in its eyes. Right. It's probably waiting on a response and here Flins is having some type of episode over a simple cancellation—the sixth cancellation, but who is counting? He quickly scans the rest of the letter and only comprehends half of it. Enough to know another Lightkeeper is once again going to sail supplies from Piramida.
"Aedon. Please inform Illuga, he will be missed and that he is always a welcomed guest, scheduled or unscheduled. I also appreciate him looking out for me. Remind him to pay himself the same respect by taking breaks and looking out for his health.”
Flins watches the bird leave obediently, swallowed by the wall of rain. He can't say how long he stares out that window, how long he lets the chill and droplets spatter freely against his counters and his body, but it's long enough to effect a creature like him. Strange, he was always told Snowland fae couldn't feel cold and yet this chill, it freezes his core like setting ice and leaves him physically trembling no better than a fawn birthed on a bed of snow. He feels twice as bloodied. Flins pulls the window closed, flames gumming the last remnant of firewater.
It doesn't burn the way he usually likes. No, worse than that. It's tasteless.
Shaking fingers reach for the faucet, if only to rinse out the glass yet when he pulls it, nothing comes up. The pipes are frozen again.
"Το χιόνι θα τα θάψει όλα!" (Snow bury it all.) The force of his voice and fist slamming onto the counter rattles the dishware in the cabinets who loose balking laughter at his misfortune. Flins curls forward, burying his face in the valley the pillows both his forearms make. He doesn't care if the rain water is soaking into his clothes. He doesn't care that he's shaking. He doesn't care that all he can smell is smoke and not even taste his favorite drink.
He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn’t care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.Hedoesn'tcare.Hedoesn'tcare—
The latch on the window bursts open with a clatter, fresh sheets of water and wind rushing in. Great. He can't even get a window latch to cooperate with him. Exhaustedly, Flins straightens up pressing the glass closed once more. There is a crack in the bottom right pane now, jagged lines flexing out. It must've hit the cabinet too hard when it flew inward. Flins fixes on it as he slides the lock into place, sharp vision defocusing as it notices something in the distance behind it.
A flash of burgundy hunched down by the shore.
Look at the pair of them. Forgotten by Teyvat, devoid of their purpose that once stirred their nigh eternal slumbers. And isn’t it sad? Flins considers himself no saint and yet he ended up saddled alongside the fate of a Sinner. There is something poetic trapped in there—a memento mori under a crueler flavor. If only a bard or someone with a perchance for poetry cared enough to look upon their miserable lives and dig some amusement out of this. No doubt, it would only be palatable alongside several steins.
Maybe their time of Teyvat has long since expired. Maybe it would be a form of service for the both of them to lay down not only their arms, but themselves for one final sleep.
And yet all Flins knows is he doesn’t want to accept it. And, if what Miss Columbina recalled during her encounter with the Sinner in the moon’s reflection was true, maybe Rerir doesn’t want to either despite what he would have Flins and himself believe. After all, why is the other man still growing fungus on the cemetery’s shores? Why hasn't he left?
Flins doesn’t even grab an umbrella nor does he grab his coat. He walks into the deafening downpour with the same purposeful stride he met Rerir with during their many collisions over the years. And this time he doesn’t slow at the muddy ceasefire and windswept brush—he breaks through unrepentant and comes to a stop right next to Rerir. Flins is given no attention for his arrival nor surprise at his presence in such a storm and that suits him just fine.
“Come inside.” Not a request nor a demand. It’s something softer, and inexplicably exhausted as Flins feels.
Rerir’s confusion begets a fuchsia eye begrudgingly wavering from the raging sea in front of them up to Flins.
“The pipes are frozen,” Flins brows furrows as he wrestles some honesty into his insistence. “I tire of remembering to utilize them. You would benefit from repeated attention under the shower as well as the washing board. Metal polish is located in the showroom under my gem collection. If you use the last of it, tell me and I will replace it. Furthermore, I have no necessary use for the bed chambers. They are yours to commandeer and I invite you to them so long as you leave the sheets for me to launder. I enjoy the busy work these days.”
The storm and waves are the only thing breaking the lapse in Flins rambling. Rerir makes no move to get up so Flins decides to impart one more thing, extending his hand much like the first time he invited Rerir inside.
“We cannot hope to wait for something better to find us here. A cemetery is where all things come to their unfortunate end after all. Should you choose to, I think it would provide no short amount of entertainment to search for some manner of direction in this life with company. Reconciliation may never be truly obtainable for the things you’ve done, but I’ve found that making an effort helps sleep come easier.” Water and wind whips and eventually Flins retracts his hand, forced to go inside lest the rain eventually impart some mark upon his flame.
Rerir does not take Flins up on his offer that night. For whatever reason the storm and chittering spirits provide better company to his drink of melancholy. It could also simply be that even after several months of rotting on Final Night Cemetery’s shores he is not yet ready to move on, or perhaps, he fears he doesn’t deserve the chance despite ogling the goal.
Maybe it was ridiculous for Flins to stay up, distractedly cleaning the kitchen as his eyes failing not to jump to the hunch of red to see if it moved. Maybe even more ridiculous for him to sit in the living room with a book he choose at random and then afforded no attention past that to it’s content. And yet Flins can’t help but think it was worth it, every tick of the clock, every burst of wind that made the metal walls shriek or mimic a knock of the door if only for the way his flaming heart all but jumped when he heard a single, distinctive pound just before five in the morning.
Flins slides a bookmark onto some random page, a conundrum for later him to parse out and tries not to rush to greet his visitor. He pulls the door open, a comical mix of curiosity and carefulness. There Rerir stands, soaked to the bone and reeking of months of accrued salt, body odor and rust. It drips noisily onto the porch, rivulets running down metal and bandage like tears. He doesn’t say anything and yet Flins feels a smile drawn to his lips at the sight and the urge to greet him like any other guest. “Good Morning. Please, you are welcome inside.”
And though Rerir offers him no verbal return, he does stiffly incline his head and take up Flins’s invitation to enter the lighthouse. It’s enough, more than enough for Flins to not feel so empty for a few moments and the most excited in months to shut the door behind two people instead of one.
☆ - ☆
Rerir doesn’t speak much, at least for the first month. That’s alright. Flins could talk enough for the both of them and he’s fine to do that if the situation calls for it. That being said, he is also equally content to sit and bask in a companionable silence. Whatever the situation calls for.
Rerir is a funny house guest. Flins surmise he has forgotten to a degree how to look after himself after so many years of being the Wild Hunt’s spearhead and the abyss wracking his psyche. That on top of his habit of getting lost in thoughts and staring out into space surely doesn’t make for the most cognizant companion. Well, Flins supposes it doesn’t truly matter if Rerir ‘acts’ human or not. There is no need to start any new games in that regard. After all, they’ve never acted human to each other on the battlefield so why start now that they’ve set down their weapons? Wouldn’t that be a disservice to their history?
Drying off after his showers is not Rerir’s strong suit nor is he good about ensuring all the shampoo suds are rinsed from his hair. Brushing his teeth before bed earns glares sharp as fractured glass and yet all the same, almost every time he’s reminded Flins hears the water run ere long.
And to that same degree, Flins can’t say he hates it. No, if anything he can’t help but find himself amused. Why? He’s not sure. Maybe for the confused expression that twists up Rerir’s features when Flins pads over with a towel and starts dabbing at the skin with bemused casualness. Or maybe it’s the flat look he gets when he’s feeling more mischievous and throws the towel square at the Sinner’s chest. Who can say?
One curious thing Rerir does is that the few times Flins makes the journey to Nasha Town to buy something inane that the supply drops from Piramida don’t replenish, Rerir chooses not to linger inside the lighthouse. He’ll go down by the shore or even stalk the island. Flins tried to passively impart that he’s welcome to stay inside while he’s gone and yet every time, no matter if Flins suspected Rerir was sleeping minutes ago, the Sinner will be not two feet out the door behind him.
The rhythm of it all becomes comforting, so much so that Flins starts to ramble about some things Rerir’s gaze falls on for longer than a few seconds, regardless if he’s zoning out or actually considering an item. Rerir must enjoy it too because if he sees Flins wander into the show room with his polishing cloth, he’ll trail after him and point out something the fae hasn’t talked about yet. Eventually, Flins starts telling him stories just because—not all about shining gems.
A story of a kid and leveret—one who hid to be heard and the other who ran to be remembered.
Stories about an azure flame—who delighted and deceived in equal measure at the grand balls of bygone years.
One night, equal parts melancholic and wistful, a story of a wisp—summoned by the spilt blood of future comrades and the sacrifice of a squad lost to the Hunt. And most important, their light that persisted even after they returned to the leylines that coaxed that wisps' long sleeping heart to burn anew.
Flins does not tell Rerir these things with expectation that it will be returned. He tells them because he simply wants to share. He tells them because every time he watches Rerir’s eye twitch as it prunes the excess filigree from the prime rib, Flins finds his chest discerningly warm instead of cold like he’d been growing used to. Still it is nice when one day into June it is offered back to him.
A day he needed it more than Rerir would ever know.
Flins shuts the door to the Lighthouse behind him. He can’t even begin to process what just happened. There are cotton fields of thoughts stuffing his head. Too many to pick, too many to burn, all of them snagging and pressing against the inside of his skull until thinking itself becomes a kind of pressure. He just—
The cabinets are hinged open before he even realizes he enters the kitchen. As disagreeable as it is to drown one's worries with liquor, Flins keenly wishes he had the ability to get drunk. Feeling numb would be better than emptiness. Numbness, you feel nothing. Simple, easy. Emptiness? Now that is where you distinctly feel the ache of everything you lack. If it's between feeling empty or at bare minimum feeding his flame in an unconventional way, he'll gladly pad the emptiness like this.
Flins grabs the two bottles of firewater from the back, bringing them and an old glass to the table. Cap removed, the liquor burps out in a narrow ribbon, catching the sunset through the glass panes and carrying itself down. It hits the bottom and blooms upward to the fill line, circling until the surface evens and appears something adjacent to its namesake.
The rim kisses his lower lip, indenting the chapped plush for only a second until Flins knocks it all down in one, steady motion. The burn hits fast and unforgiving, a bright line of fire down his throat that spreads warm and heavy into his chest just as he hoped. His eyes flutter shut, descending into a seat as the heat settles into something duller, something bearable.
Flins stares at the glass in front of him, studying the ghost drops of liquid until the burn has just begun to fade and then pours again. He indulges only half the glass this time, trying to savor it. There'd be no point to rush—it won't get him drunk nor will it fill up the emptiness for long if he burns it too quick. This is just to feel something other than empty.
Instead, it feels like life is taking Flins for a ride. Reminder after reminder that his purpose is being physically ripped from his hands, knuckles bloodied and aching just trying to hold on for one fucking second, all given with explicit intent to shake his resolve. A resolve that Flins never thought could waver once he started loving humans and now here he lays, entertaining the thought for the briefest flicker of sinking back beneath the monument.
Of resting, until humans need him once more. What else would he do with himself if he was not in their service?
The chair scraping out beside Flins nearly makes him jump out of his fake skin, but he masks it expertly. Just where did Rerir come from?
"Tholindis used to say I did a lot of overthinking for a nobody," Rerir speaks in a low, unrushed drawl, nearly overpowered as the meager wooden chair groans beneath the titan of a man resting against its back. The sound of his voice makes gooseflesh rise on the fae's skin.
Because Rerir doesn't initiate many conversations, let alone talk at length.
He'll make derisive comments here and there, hoarse and faint, but he won't just ramble or pull the cards away from his chest. It makes Flins helpless but to latch on to the noise, new and shiny much like a fancy gem.
"She didn't mean that in a cruel way, just that we were arguably unimportant people and she thought my worrying was far above our 'unremarkable' lives. Now that I've had some time to think about it, maybe more communication between us could've saved her life." The chair creaks again, Rerir's voice more clear, "I don't know what I am going to do with this life before me, but I know it can't be a man who entertains the same mistakes twice."
Ah.
Flins feels silly as he does hollow. Such a ridiculous pair of emotions. He would think if he feels miserable and listless beyond all reason he would not have the capability to also feel feather brained and yet here he sits. It seems he's still learning new things after all these years. "I did not meet the requirements to pass Miss Aino's lecture today. I tried very hard and even paid attention without any deviation or attempt at diversion, but I could not grasp the internal mechanisms and burned out twice as many wires as I repaired. If I cannot pass the next lecture with a suitable score, whenever she has the time to hold it, that is, I will be unable to perform my duties and will be forcibly retired from action as per Piramida's new standard operating procedure."
Rerir lets out a long, considering hum. "Is retirement really so bad?
It's an arguably simple question, one Flins should've honestly asked himself with consideration. Perhaps doing that much, earnestly facing the sprouting seed of emptiness growing vines in lungs and asking 'why was it growing so fast and why did it make it so hard to breathe' would've saved him months of grief. "To ask me to retire is essentially to ask me to give up my reason for being. Could a bird give up flying? A fish give up water? I wouldn't know how to even take the first step. Though by technicality, you were the one to give us all a reason to raise up our arms, humans gave me the curiosity to disembark from my interminable sleep. They charmed me, earnestly with their vibrancy. I wish to bear witness to their narrative if only to ensure it continues on. I love them so much."
Quiet for a bit. "Do you need to be a Lightkeeper to do that?"
Flins considers it. He supposes not. There are other professions that work towards the protection of human life yet he can't picture himself in any of those positions. Being a Lightkeeper, sitting shoulder to shoulder with the descendents of those who gave him something to cherish, nursing loss and victory in the banquets he couldn't participate in if only to soak up their warmth like a wallflower does indirect sunlight—"What else would I be?"
"You," Rerir shugs. "Why wouldn't that be enough? You don't think you could love humans if you weren't a Lightkeeper?"
"Is it so bad that I wish for something not to change?" Flins takes the rest of the glass and clears its contents, blowing out a little smoke just for the fun of it. He feels no amusement.
"It's a very human concept. Guess you love them so much you've started to think like them." Rerir laughs, short and half-hearted. They both lapse into a more comfortable silence, one that lets the warmth of the fire water persist for longer than normal. For a while it's just the metal creaking, the muffled wind and crashing waves of the distant shore. Eventually the wooden chair screams as the Sinner rises. Flins thinks he means to leave him to his solo game of mental chess until Rerir speaks up."You said making an effort helps you find closure, right? Come on, then. Let's put in some effort."
Flins blinks, finally taking his eyes off the empty glass and raising them to look up at Rerir. He tilts his head, much like a cat.
☆ - ☆
"How do you think one stops feeling so empty all the time? Permanently, I mean," Flins pipes up. He feels a bit silly laying on the living room floor surrounded by smoking circuit boards of his failed attempts over the last hour, and yet he likes it. Feeling silly, that is. It is better than emptiness, a bit strange, but better. He supposes the closest thing he can equate it to is when you're given a bottle of wine you've never tried before. The way you tongue and ruminate until your tastebuds fire off their approval or denial.
It's something, and maybe that's why he likes it.
This was Rerir's idea. At Rerir's behest, Flins went to Miss Aino's craftshop and stubbornly asked for practice boards and the course material. She seemed suspicious at first for his request, accusing him of trying to sabotage future classes but Flins must've made his earnestness clear because she eventually forked over a whole bag and the instruction booklet.
Which brings Flins to now, splayed on his stomach surrounded by fifteen failures and one remaining circut board. He fiddles carefully, so carefully checking each micromovement against the list of written instructions.
"It's not possible. Find a distraction." Rerir, by contrast is lying on his back, eye closed and at ease. "You have enough junk in this place for seven hobbies—don't touch that."
Pause. "It is quite unnerving when you do that," Flins mumbles, realizing he was about to accidentally test the wrong part and no doubt overload the board. He shifts his other hand, aiming towards the top and just when he gets over the portion he thinks he is meant to adjust—
"That one."
"Is that what you did? Found a distraction?" Flins snides back, decides to not even acknowledge it anymore.
"Kind of," Rerir shrugs. "There is an annoying fae that wouldn't leave me alone. Made me come fix his pipes. That wasn't enough," Rerir playfully rolls his head to the side, eyes still closed. "Made me come live with him because he kept forgetting to use them," Another roll so his head faces the other wall, "Still not enough. Greedy, greedy fae."
There's a smile on Flins's face. How did that get there? "You could've told him you needed your peace. I'm sure he would've eventually understood."
Rerir huffs a disbelieving laugh, finally opening his eye and mock-glaring at the fae. "When? All he does is talk."
"So why didn't you walk out when he was gone? Surely, he's not home all the time," Flins bats back, enjoying this verbal badminton. He makes another adjustment on the board.
Rerir is quiet for a second, amusement setting like the sun as his brow slants contemplative and equally defeated. "I tried. I thought about the rest of the Teyvat and where I could go. Something like me, a Sinner. Somewhere that I could feel I would have the right to exist with this waterfall of bloody history I leave in my wake. Even if I found some desecrated destroyed corner of the world, to burden it with my existence wouldn't be right." Rerir loses a deep sigh. "Even now, trying to convince myself that I'm allowed to take up space is like writing with my left hand when I was born to use my right. It just isn't something I can do." A shrug. "Here? The space was freely given and a cemetery is where all unfortunate things come to their end. Staying is contingent only upon good behavior and I told you, now that my head is mostly clear of that abyssal vice, I'm not a man who makes the same mistakes twice."
Flins finds himself losing a content breath around a single nod. He gets it. "But you're content to let me make the same mistake fifteen times?"
"It kept you distracted, didn't it?" Rerir snidely comments, letting his eye flutter shut once more.
Silence takes center stage for a minute or two.
"Rerir?"
"What?"
"I'd like to propose an informal deal," Flins screws back on the casing of the circuit board and starts reattaching the wires. "Should you be in need of a greater distraction, you will tell me and I will do my best to meet your needs as you have tried to meet mine. In exchange, I will come to you should I need the self same assistance."
Rerir shifts against the floorboards, and loses a sigh in an indiscernible reply.
"The world is moving on with or without us," the fae's voice slides bitterly, turning over the fastening to reveal the test light on top. "I figure we have no choice but to try and keep up at our own pace, but should one of us stumble, perhaps the other can shoulder the weight if only till we regain our footing." Flins flips the switch, blinking in surprise as the light turns on. It flickers, buzzing at a low frequency but doesn't go out. Ah.
"I guess it's something to do."
Rerir's voice draws Flins's attention over the lightbulb, the meager light spilling between them. The Sinner has arched his neck back, eye open and studying the fae with what looks like some scrounged up pride. Flins can't help but smile and hum in return.
☆ - ☆
So that's how they do it, and it does—that is, make things easier.
Even if it isn't a contest, Rerir has far more bad days than Flins. Letting him read the old Lightkeeper reports was not something Flins was happy to do yet he dreaded all the same. He recognized that Rerir wanted to feel the weight of being the Wild Hunt's former ringermaster and understand the true scope of its activities. To say he was wary of the blow it'd do to Rerir's psyche is an understatement. Rightfully so.
For weeks on end, Flins would find Rerir sitting on the shore, arms wrapped around his knees in a comical disconnect to his hulking size and no focus in his eye. It didn't take a genius to determine the guilt he felt outweighed the power the Sinner had once held and then some. Flins didn't try to console him nor did he try to excuse the actions, he just did what he promised. He sat there for as long as he could until the tide came in too high and told Rerir more stories.
What? He's six or seven hundred years old for God's sake he had enough stories to kill a calvary.
Flins didn't expect it of course, but when the water started to go past his waist and the fae was forced to retreat, Rerir would get up too and plod after him with his head hanging, metaphorical tail between his legs. A moping old fighting dog forced to get out of the water and come inside to dry. That's what he reminded Flins of. Hmm, perhaps Nikita had some merit on his earlier insistence.
So what else could Flins do but try and make the weight of his thoughts a little more bareable. They had bone puzzle battles, reconstructing monsters in a test of speed until the frustrations of such delicate little bones incensed Rerir to mutter out expletives and left Flins in stitches. Rerir never said thank you, which Flins was glad for. It simply wasn't necessary.
It wasn't all bad either. Now Flins had someone to share the few and far between good days.
Miss Aino's next class took place in the dead of winter and Flins spent no short amount of time furiously studying every type of electrical failure a streetlight could take. Bulb burned out, circuit board short—anything and everything he sat there repeating the instructions to himself. Rerir was kind enough to snatch the book from his hands and start quizzing him.
He came back from the workshop all but running, poorly contained excitement to announce his victory as he found the Sinner for the first time not only inside the lighthouse in his absence (strange), but Rerir had his head propped up reading a random book that Flins damn well knows he already finished.
"You know." Flins can only laugh. He knew that bird watching him take his test looked far too keen on him.
Rerir didn't admit to it, but he did let Flins drag him all the way to Nasha town (in disguise of course) that same weekend to attend a gem auction for six whole hours.
Physicality crept up on them. It wasn't something either of them made any conscious effort to encourage or escalate. They just did it as it came to them naturally. Rerir tapping him on the shoulder for his attention. Flins patting his arm in turn to get the Sinner's.
It took another year before it elevated past simple common courtesy, Flins on one of his more somber days playing an old record of a song. One hand raised, holding an invisible partner's hand and the other resting on their equally fake waist.
It was well after two in the morning, the music down low so as hopefully not to rouse Rerir. Flins swung and swayed, eyes closed as he moved to steps well ingrained into muscle memory. The memories of an old friend who had long since passed on to the leylines was tormenting him. She was an objectively beautiful fae women who always saved a spot for him along the walls where they'd place bets and exchange gossip at parties. One time she felt compelled to dance and gave him a gem for his cooperation to her moment of fancy.
Flins missed her. She was a good friend and it was an easy friendship. They never met up outside of parties, but Flins' eyes always sought her upon arrival and always crinkled when he saw the same in her searching gaze.
It was the realization that he couldn't recall her name that was driving him to tears, that drove him to put the record on and hold the gem in his hand to try and jog his memory. He was running out of time though, the song was almost over and still didn't even have the letter of her first name—a (by contrast of memory) large hand slips into his clawed fingers squeezing tightly and startling him.
Rerir didn't say anything, just moved Flins's hand to a real waist and then kept them moving long after the music faded to nothing. Flins never did remember her name, something that troubled him greatly, but he gained something for that loss to soothe the rusting scales and the emptiness was chased away for a few hours.
☆ - ☆
"Mr. Flins. You got a dog," Illuga blinks, more than surprised watching a mangy white dog with one eye laying pressed against Flins's thigh. It even huffs at acknowledgement!
"Not-So-Young Master, you've brought me paperwork," Flins sighs, leaning back against the metal bench and resting a hand on the dog's head. "I suppose it was remiss of me to assume that I'd be absolved of its tedium once the Wild Hunt left us, wasn't it?"
"This is how you get paid, Flins," Illuga shakes his head, setting down the empty forms. "If it makes you feel better someone has to go and check each lantern you've tended and sign off so you're getting help in a sense." Illuga peeks again at the dog who doesn't seem to want to acknowledge him at all. Closer, he can see it's missing an eye and its fur is patchy everywhere. "Don't take this the wrong way Mr. Flins, but I thought little critters didn't like you much. Where did you find it?"
Flins smiles, the curve of it injected with something teasing. "He wandered onto the cemetery shores some time ago. He was well behaved enough so I saw no reason to shoo him and eventually he followed into the Lighthouse after me. I am as surprised as you to see him so content by my side."
The dog growls.
"Uh huh," Illuga's disbelief is blunt. Still, in his kind way he extends his hand for the dog to sniff. It gives him no attention, going as far as to turn it's head away. Best not to pet it then.
"You'll have to forgive him, Not-So-Young Master. He isn't quite a social beast—" Another growl, "but he is wonderful company on a day like this. Will you be staying long?"
Illuga opens his mouth, considering before his features soften. "If you're not too attached to working on your reports, catching up would be nice. We could fish up something for a barbecue and sit in the sun for a few hours."
Flins looks actually quite surprised, eyes going wide and sitting up a little straighter in his seat. "That sounds delightful. Would you enjoy that?"
"Is that even a question? I offered, didn't I?" Illuga laughs, a little confused. Flins is acting so strange today. Why would Illuga not want to spend time with him? Just because he's been so busy doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy his company anymore.
Flins beams, not that polite grin, but a real and earnest smile. "I'll go get the fishing polls. Please keep an eye on Rerir." With that Flins gets to his feet, chuckling as the dog comically lets its head flop onto the metal bench and huff.
"Rerir…," Illuga mutters, confused before he realizes where he heard the name before. It hits him all at once, shouting after his dear friend. "You named your dog after the Racher of Solnari?!"
They spend seven hours catching up, eating grilled fish and soaking up the sun's affection. Flins's dog doesn't seem too keen on eating any offered scraps but it does look quite content laying its head on the lightkeeper's thigh, tail twitching when Flins' fingers drag through its patchy fur.
Illuga leaves when the sunsets, fitting enough of an exit. Flins gives him a kind wave until his little boat disappears on the horizon. Only then does the dog sitting by his feet shapeshift back to its real form. They don't talk about it, that's not their way, but Flins is all too content to let Rerir rest his head in the valley of his thighs once more when they return to the metal bench.
It's the warmest day in Nod Krai's history.
☆ - ☆
"Rerir. Are you awake?" Flins mutters into the dark one night, ten years later. Time has left them unchanged and alone unlike their accomplices. Unlike Nikita, who Flins buried today. It was a big deal, all Lightkeepers enlisted and those who turned civilian came to attend. They had a big banquet, lit fireworks off Pirimida and the alcohol flowed until the sun rose and then some. Flins drank a lot, even if it wouldn't do much to him. Then they traveled to the cemetery, shores crowded with black and purple as they laid their old Starshyna to his final rest under the midday sun.
Illuga didn't stop crying once. He's sleeping upstairs in the spare bedroom, still completely unaware that Flins, who took the couch, isn't alone.
The face pressed into his chest huffs, arms squeezing around Flins's middle which coaxes the fae's whispering to continue. "…I appreciate what you've done for me. I just wanted you to know that. I don't think I would've made it through these last few years without you and, if by some miracle it did, I know tonight I would've lost my streak."
"You act as if you haven't done anything for me, little light. You had a long day. Why are you still up thinking about me of all things?"
'This will be a bad night, won't it?'
"I just wanted to let you know that your kindness has not been untallied. Is that really so concerning?"
'It is a bad night. I can feel the emptiness eating at me. Don't leave me alone'
"No good thoughts come after the sun sets." The arms around Flins's middle squeeze tightly as if they could pull the fae any closer.
'I'm here. I won't leave.'
It presses a defeated hum out of Flins's lungs and he resumes the motion of running his fingers through Rerir's hair. The white locks are silky and clean, well maintained after many years under the showerhead and in Flins's home. "I know. Thank you for reminding me."
Flins does eventually doze off, a tough frown on his lips and worry scarred into the middle of his brows. If Rerir stays up the entire night, holding onto him tightly just in case, well nobody would know.
At least until Illuga stumbles downstairs mid-day and red-eyed to see the fae still dozing. Snuggled into the hollow of Flins's arms is that mangy white dog, dozing as well. Illuga is hopeless and raw from the loss of his father figure and yet all he can do is be grateful to think, 'Thank you for taking care of Mr. Flins.'