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Lauma had long since grown accustomed to the feel of nature. It sprang into her lungs with every breath and reached back out into the world with her bleeding touch. But there was something about Flins’ energy that felt more…ancient. Something that spoke of deep regret and even deeper understanding, if only the birds stopped to listen.
It was not the yawning emptiness of the missing moons in the sky, nor the naïveté of freshly bloomed flowers in the spring. His eyes were blissfully devoid of color, barring the single-toned yellow of his irises, and his hair a gradient that was terribly uncommon this side of Teyvat. Yet, in the marrow of her bones and in the blood of her body, she recognized it.
When he politely rebuffed her every invitation and when he kept his distance from the stubborn ibis or lively puffins, Lauma had thought the man too quiet. Someone brimming with life should resonate with the world around them, loudly, and with much conviction.
That is not to say that Flins lacked confidence, for his ceaseless fight against the Wild Hunt had refined him into an experienced Lightkeeper. But he was subtle, always moving with and among the shadows. Lauma had learned early that any place where the moon’s light didn’t dare shine was a dangerous place indeed, but she’d be lying if she said Flins’ particular brand of danger didn’t stir something new inside her.
Perhaps she knew better than to trust him blindly—all her time with the Frostmoon Scions had at least taught her this much—but she was still foolish enough to want to fight alongside him. To want to give him any and everything he’d never ask for, gentlemanly as he’s always been.
The distance between them nearly felt foreign to Lauma. She felt his presence before his brilliant lantern ever entered her field of vision, and the creatures of Hiisi Island warned of his arrival every time. As if he were someone to be wary of, although he’d done nothing to incur such a reputation among the inhabitants of Nod-Krai.
No, to her, Flins held a warmth unlike any other. He carried himself like a man who has spent far too much time alone, and he spoke with pretty words that often rang of insincerity. This, Lauma was certain of. But beyond that, he was selfless to a fault. A kindred spirit that aimed to help when there was help that needed giving. A light that found its way to those who needed guiding.
Somehow, Lauma doubted that Flins was compelled to act in the same way she was. Her responsibility was born with her, and it will live as long as she lives. Flins was not always a Lightkeeper, and he could stop being one tomorrow if he so wanted to. Yet, under the cold cover of night and in the lithe movement of his muscles, he fights like he was made for it. A force forged with fire gleaming along the shores of the place she had always called home.
Lauma thinks that, no matter who—or what—Flins may be, she longs to stay by his side.