Chapter Text
At the edge of dawn, the elusive lightkeeper of Final Night Cemetery heard a knock at his humble abode. The wind moved softly along the shore, carrying the salt of the sea and the distant rumble of waves. Flins wondered if he had mistaken the wind for someone at his door. Visitors were rare enough; at this wee hour, they were unheard of.
“Hey, is anyone in there?”
A gruff voice, rough with age, rang from the other side of the door. A second knock followed soon after—more insistent this time.
“Please wait a moment.”
Flins dropped the feather duster in his hand. He had been in the middle of dusting his bone collection when the unexpected visit interrupted him. Crossing the room, he reached for the latch.
At this proximity, a dull pressure settled in his chest. The air felt wrong. Weighted. Strained. As if something on the other side of the door were pulling at him. He recognized the feeling. Distress, with close and fraying edges.
The door creaked open, and the scent of Frostlamp Flower drifted in, quickly drowned by blood and the bitter tang of abyssal corruption.
Flins stilled.
Leaning against the doorway was a knight, at least by attire. A blackened breastplate bore the crest of the Knights of Favonius, its surface dulled by sand and grime.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you so early in the morn,” the blond man explained, offering a small grin. Up close, his voice sounded rougher, worn thin at the edges. He shifted his weight, one hand tightening around the claymore he still held. “My supplies were lost. Knocked overboard during a skirmish just off the island.”
He drew a slow breath, steadying himself, as though trying to shake off his agitation. ”I saw your lighthouse from a distance. Thought I might borrow what I need to patch myself up and continue on my way.”
His gaze lifted, sharp despite the strain. “I’ll make sure to return the favor.”
Flins didn’t answer at once.
As a fae, debts were not things to be taken lightly. Better to shift the knight’s focus before one could form. His gaze had already drifted to the shallow cuts along the knight’s arm, to the bruises blossoming across his cheeks.
“Weary visitor,” Flins said gently, “please allow me to tend to your wounds first.”
The words settled between them, heavy and warm. The knight’s shoulders eased, his grip loosening as the claymore came to rest against the wall, his body responding before his thoughts could catch up.
Flins held the door open and stepped aside, careful not to agitate the sentinel any further. He watched for any sign of unease as the taller man took in his surroundings.
When the knight’s posture finally eased, Flins took that as his cue to prepare hot drinks for his visitor.
At the scrape of a chair and the release of a heavy sigh, Flins returned with hot tea. He set a cup within easy reach before speaking.
“My name is Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins,” he said, bowing politely. “I am a Ratnik of Nod Krai. You may call me Flins.”
“Varka,” the blond supplied simply, settling into the chair with a quiet exhale. “I am grateful for the help. I was only passing through the area when the attack happened.”
Flins was already taller than most in Nasha Town, but standing this close, he felt small by comparison. From the scarred arm to the breadth of his shoulders, the man was built differently. Yet nothing in the knight’s poise suggested danger. If anything, Varka carried an ease that Flins found unexpectedly disarming.
Of course, Flins knew who stood before him.
If the other chose not to reveal his occupation, it was not the lightkeeper’s place to press. Everyone carried things they preferred to leave unspoken.
The jolly knight the town had whispered about for weeks now stood within the quiet lighthouse, pale and weary, his armor bearing the marks of battles far removed from any ordinary citizen’s life.
“You needn’t trouble yourself. If it is within my power, of course, I would gladly help.”
Nikita, the current Starshyna and leader of the Lightkeepers, kept him informed, and the reports had been clear enough. The knights were no longer scattered wanderers; most had taken up position near Lightkeeper headquarters, close to regions where the Wild Hunts were most active.
Piramida lay to the north, the seat of the Lightkeepers’ main headquarters. Any approach to the region passed within sight of the lighthouse. Flins had expected Varka to be travelling that way to reconvene with his fellow knights.
“Mr. Varka,” Flins said mildly, “these waters are rather dangerous. I would advise securing an escort should you pass through them again.”
Flins rummaged through a small drawer and produced a medical kit, setting it upon the table. He offered a small bag of cryo slime condensation for the bruising, then laid out the disinfectants on the table between them. He watched the man ice his swollen cheek before gesturing for the injured arm.
Flins’s fingers closed around the sentinel’s forearm with measured care as he eased the armored glove away. Warmth radiated from the exposed skin, stark against the chill of his own touch. With his naturally low body temperature, he hoped the contrast would not trouble the other.
He cleaned the wound slowly, movements unhurried, each pause deliberate.
“This may sting,” Flins remarked—just a fraction too late. The disinfectant touched skin, and Varka let out a low groan. A faint huff of breath escaped the sentinel, caught somewhere between a breath and a laugh. His gaze flicked briefly to Flins’s face.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Varka murmured, the words more amused than accusatory.
For the briefest moment, something like mischief flickered across Flins’ expression. It was caught and softened into a small smile when he felt Varka’s attention on him, before his composure settled and he returned fully to the task at hand.
“I would be sure to heed your advice. If I were to visit again.”
Varka exhaled, the moment passing without further remark. He adjusted in his chair, mindful of the arm still in Flins’s careful grasp, and let the silence settle.
Flins acknowledged the words with a quiet inclination of his head and nothing more. He adjusted his grip on Varka’s forearm, his thumb settling just above the wrist where the tension lingered longest.
He did not hurry. The cloth passed over skin in slow, even strokes, the pressure consistent and unchanging. When the sentinel’s breath caught, Flins paused, waiting until it eased before continuing. Only then did he move again.
Gradually, the resistance beneath his hands lessened. The high-struck static that clung to the sentinel gave way, not all at once, but enough. Varka’s shoulders lowered by small degrees, his breathing finding a steadier rhythm without conscious effort.
Flins said nothing. He simply remained where he was, grounding and patient, allowing the weight Varka carried to settle into stillness rather than strain.
When he finally reached for the bandage, the sentinel’s breathing had slowed, his thoughts no longer pressing so sharply against the moment. The dull pressure Flins had sensed upon the sentinel’s arrival had softened, its edges no longer frayed.
Flins secured the bandage with practiced care, ensuring it would hold without binding too tightly. Only then did he release Varka’s arm, his hands withdrawing without haste.
He tidied the table in silence, returning the remaining supplies to their places as though nothing out of the ordinary had passed between them.
“The nearest outpost is still some distance ahead,” Flins said. “Would you care for an escort back?”
Varka did not answer at once. He remained where he was, longer than duty strictly required, the familiar pull of urgency strangely muted. For the moment, there was no perimeter to mind, no threat demanding his attention, not while Flins stood nearby.
The thought surfaced and was set aside just as quickly. He straightened, the habit of readiness returning even as the quiet lingered.
“It’s quite all right.” Varka rose from his seat, his presence already filling the small living quarters. “I’ve already intruded enough on your time. I should be going.”
He had stayed only briefly in this quiet corner of the world. And yet, the pull he felt toward the lightkeeper was anything but ordinary.
With the bag of supplies Flins had provided slung over his shoulder, Varka set out for his destination, the thought of returning settling somewhere he did not examine too closely. The skin beneath the carefully tightened bandage still felt alight, warmth lingering where there should have been none.
Flins watched the silhouette of the battle-hardened knight recede from the reach of the lighthouse until it was reduced to a distant speck against the dark. Only then did he turn back to his quarters.
May the eternal light guide your path ahead.
---
It was like any other night. Flins stood at the water’s edge, arm extended, line cast, waiting for his supper. He had, as a courtesy, asked the lingering ghosts nearby to take their chatter elsewhere, so as not to disturb the fish.
The line tugged sharply, then went slack. Whatever had taken the bait was gone by the time Flins registered it.
A familiar sense of static brushed the edge of his awareness. Along with it came the steady movement of air, subtle but persistent, the kind of presence that never truly stilled.
It had been only a few moons ago that he had helped steady this.
“Flins!”
The lightkeeper reeled in his line at once. The call carried across the water from the north, loud and hoarse, but unmistakably the wayward visitor.
He turned toward both the shout and the static, and there Varka was. The blond sentinel was rowing in, the small boat cutting steadily toward the shore.
The sight of him—battle-built and broad—crowded into such a narrow vessel was faintly absurd. Flins huffed a quiet laugh before schooling his expression.
Thankfully, this time the sight of him did not carry the sharp edge of alarm, only the familiar warmth of a hearth long kept, underscored by the sound of his laughter drawing nearer.
With the boat moored near his fishing spot, any hope of catching supper had been thoroughly ruined. Flins frowned in mock disapproval.
“Mr Varka,” he reprimanded lightly, “you have frightened all the fish away. I am afraid my favorite meal must now wait.”
Varka laughed, unabashed, as he dragged the boat the rest of the way up the shore. He reached into it and came up with the familiar bag first, setting it back into Flins’s hands. It was heavier than it should have been.
“Brought this back,” he said. “Along with a few extras. One of the Lightkeeper squad leaders wanted them delivered.”
Then he leaned back into the boat again and produced another bundle, heavier still, glass clinking softly inside.
“I’ll take responsibility for scaring away your catch,” Varka added, a grin threading into his voice. “It’s my turn to offer you a drink.”
He lifted one bottle in a loose offer. “Seems only fair, after chasing off your supper.”
Flins could not help but chuckle at the knight. The air around Varka carried a bright, restless energy, the static volatile but not unpleasant. It was difficult to refuse such an earnest offer, even when the blame rested squarely upon the shoulders of the valiant sentinel.
“It would be most impolite to refuse such an offer,” Flins said, offering a small bow despite the supplies cradled in his arms. “Let us return and see that the liquor does not go unappreciated.”
Varka shifted his weight and fell into step behind the lighthouse guardian, a faint smile tugging at his expression. The restless edge he’d carried with him ebbed, dulled by proximity rather than reason. The lightkeeper’s soft laughter carried clearly in the night air.
He glanced at Flins, brow creasing faintly. “This place isn’t so bad after all,” he said with a short huff of a laugh. “Supernatural company and all, it’s… peaceful.”
“Well then, I do hope you hold your liquor well, Mr Varka.”
No one would know that, well into the night, a certain blond knight drank himself insensible in the quiet company of a figure far older than he appeared. Perhaps only the lingering spirits that haunted the shore of the abandoned lighthouse would remember it.
They might also remember how his words, loosened by drink, turned now and then toward command rather than travel. How he spoke of knights as one accustomed to giving direction, not receiving it.
And perhaps, in his drunken stupor, the knight let his heroic tales speak for him, revealing what he had taken care to conceal.