Archive of Our Own ^beta

1

The heavy iron door slammed open with a bang. A gust of polar wind carrying sharp snowflakes rushed into the warm little tavern. The patron closest to the entrance took the full icy slap to the face and opened his mouth to swear - only to freeze when he saw a child stagger in, one whole side of his body drenched in blood.

The man instantly shut up, turned back around as if nothing had happened, and picked up his conversation with the person across from him. The bartender, however, couldn't pretend. He hurriedly wiped his hands on his apron, ducked under the small door beside the bar counter, and hurried over. As he passed a particularly quiet table, he was stopped.

'I know a little first aid. Let me take a look.'

The voice was very young - hardly old enough to be called a youth. The bartender glanced sideways: a white-haired boy in Ratnik uniform. In the dim light, his eyes carried a calm that didn't match his age at all. The bartender found himself nodding almost dazedly. The young man stood, made a quick silencing gesture to the friends behind him who were already chattering in protest, and crossed the room in a few strides.

He lifted the child's sodden clothes, probed quickly, and his serious expression twisted into something odd.

'Sir - one Fire-Water, the biggest mug you've got,' he called over his shoulder without turning.

The room went quiet for a second. The bartender hadn't expected to still be involved, but he hurried off and returned with a tankard filled to the brim - the kind normally used for beer. The young man paused when he saw the oversized wooden mug, sighed with faint helplessness, pulled a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket, took the tankard, and upended it in one sharp motion.

'Bear with it - this is all we have here.' Before the barely-breathing child could react, he pressed the soaked cloth hard against the worst wound. With his other hand he reached inside his own collar and slowly drew out a coiled bandage, beginning to work with practiced, efficient movements.

'What happened to you? How did you get hurt this badly?' the young man asked, as though only just remembering to make conversation and distract the boy. 'Sigh... our patrols still aren't frequent enough. Who knows how many monsters are still lurking... Shh, it's okay, you're okay now.'

He soothed the trembling child, palm steady and grounding. 'Where do you live? We'll take you home in a bit…'

'Hey - do you know anyone around here?' he added casually. 'Someone over there keeps looking at you.'

The child slumped against the wall suddenly lifted his head - far too alert and quick for someone so injured. The gentle young man's demeanor flipped in an instant. Using the motion of bandaging, he wrenched both arms behind the boy's back. Before the slippery little body could twist free, silver flashed - a dagger glowing with strange light pressed firmly against the child's chest.

'Get off him!'

A low command, then immediate chaos around them. No one had realized the child had already been possessed by the Wild Hunt. By the time the young man's companions shoved through in hot pursuit, the fight was already over. A golden bird stood proudly on the now-unconscious child's chest, and the baby-round face had regained healthy colour, the ominous bluish-black tint gone.

'Hey Illuga - you okay?'

'Did you spot it from the beginning? And you didn't say anything?!'

'Yeah! You're treating us like strangers - '

The big boy, suddenly surrounded, scrunched his face to explain - when a low male voice spoke from nearby: 'That thing was sharp. If a whole respectable squad of Ratnik had charged in, it would've acted immediately.'

Heads turned. The man who had been drinking alone at the bar gave a small nod. 'This young gentleman - Illuga, right? Must know these creatures very well, and has considerable confidence in his own skill - I would too, if I possessed skills like that - to face it alone. A real pleasure to meet you.' He extended his right hand. 'Flins. Put that Fire-Water on my tab.'

****

Illuga was wary. The instant he turned toward Flins, he was certain he saw something flicker briefly in the other man's hand. Before his teammates noticed, the tall man had already withdrawn the half-extended palm back into the folds of his elaborately decorated coat.

Most importantly, the man hadn't entirely lied when he distracted the creature. From the moment Illuga approached, he had felt a gaze fixed on him - not the furtive curiosity of an ordinary onlooker, but something quietly appraising. He quickly sized Flins up: sincere expression, no obvious scent of blood, a small lamp hanging at his waist that inexplicably felt reassuring. Though placed next to standard-issue ones, it still looked a little peculiar.

After a moment's hesitation, seeing the other man hadn't removed his gloves, Illuga simply wiped his half-dried bloody hand and gave a brief shake. 'Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Flins.'

'No trouble at all,' Flins said, a trace of regret in his tone, 'though it's a pity to waste this fine Fire-Water on a monster. Still better than - '

'Huh?' Illuga looked at him in slight confusion. The mug had been large, the liquor plentiful; the blue flames had burned steadily. He had only just smothered the last flicker and downed the dregs when his new acquaintance spoke again - half a beat late - leaving Illuga faintly embarrassed.

After a brief silence, Flins laughed softly, delighted. 'Didn't expect that. Please, sit. Allow me to share a few drinks with you and other comrades... I'm sure we'll find plenty in common.'

2

Flins - once a Lightkeeper listed but rarely seen - had gradually become someone whose movements could actually be traced.

'...I overheard them talking. They said if they couldn't find you, they'd ask us Nightmare Orioles, like you're some kind of auxiliary member.' Illuga leaned sideways to fix the broken window frame, brow furrowed - whether because the damage was genuinely stubborn or because he didn't like those words.

'Sigh. Am I not welcome? That wounds me deeply.'

'Don't. You know what I mean,' Illuga muttered, fiddling with nails on the table and sighing. 'Mr. Flins guards an entire lighthouse alone. Daily patrols and clearances are already our whole squad's workload. And now you're being counted in…'

'That's even more distant, Young Master. Even crows mixing with pigeons to find food don't divide spoils so precisely.' Flins gave a light laugh and passed him a screwdriver. 'We're comrades. Why draw lines between you and me?'

'Last time you said “you Ratnik” - didn't sound nearly so affectionate.'

'All right. I thought Young Master was sharp at command and combat, but apparently you're excellent with accounts too. Surely not a skill the Starshyna personally taught you.'

Illuga's mouth stayed tight, but his eyes crinkled with amusement. 'Careful - The old man might start rejecting your supply requests next time.'

Flins raised one hand in mock surrender. 'From what I know of Young Master Illuga, he isn't the type to tattle behind someone's back.'

'Then you still have a lot left to learn about me.' Illuga tapped a row of nails home with quick, firm strikes, blew away the dust, stood straight and glanced outside. 'Someone's arguing again.'

'Happens all the time,' Flins said without moving. Only when Illuga turned to head out did he sigh and rise to follow. 'Does the Ratnik handbook clearly define scope of duty, little captain?'

****

This time it was a woman - hair neatly combed, clothes very worn.

'...my brother,' she said in a voice thick with grief, 'he was always obedient, careful in his work. That accident couldn't have been his - his negligence. There must be something else - '

'Something else?' The man closest to the stove looked refined; the one who spoke was his burly companion. 'Do you know how much our boss lost? We're already being generous not demanding compensation from you, and now you want to extort us? Stinking hag - perfect timing. Let's settle accounts right now!'

Illuga stared at the frail woman's face. She looked faintly familiar. Lightkeepers built defenses, requisitioned weapons and ammunition - they inevitably dealt with the mine bosses and foremen entrenched here. Accident reports sometimes passed through his hands, so...

'I signed a report last month,' he said quietly, fists clenching. 'Said a worker operated improperly. Evidence complete, procedure compliant. I - '

Flins said nothing, only murmured, 'She's hiding a knife inside her coat.'

Illuga gave a small sound of acknowledgment, strode between the two sides, pulled a badge from his small pouch, and set it in front of the leisurely-drinking refined man.

'I signed the report. I take responsibility.' He met the man's eyes without flinching. 'But the money belongs to the family.'

The man gave a dismissive smile, extended two stingy fingers, picked up the badge with distaste - and froze as firelight caught the words engraved there, and the sharp winged insignia on Illuga's sleeve. The mocking curl left his mouth; his face changed.

'You're…' He straightened, shot Illuga a venomous look, then glared at the woman - one hand wiping tears, the other hidden in her apron - and muttered something foul under his breath. Reluctantly he fished out a pouch and slammed it on the table. 'Take it and get her out.'

Illuga clenched his jaw, but now wasn't the time for words. He took the pouch, gently placed it in the woman's arms as he passed, and returned to the back room before she could thank him.

****

Flins lagged two steps behind. When stepped back inside, he was carrying two glasses of that ghostly blue flame. ‘If I’m not wrong, you just took over as captain last month.’

Illuga had a large nail clamped between his teeth, looking like he wanted to grind it to dust and swallow the shards. ‘It’s still me who signed it.’

‘What’s the point of that?’ Flins found it faintly amusing, but he observed social decorum and kept the laugh inside. Instead, he slid one of the glasses over. ‘I borrowed some Mr. Demyan’s treasures. How’s the taste?’

He watched the new young captain - who still came up only to his shoulder - stiffen his neck and accept the heavy tumbler. With one sharp tilt, Illuga downed half the glass in a single go. Fire-Water, even the improved version - was nothing like the gentle Piramida Nightingale. Illuga instinctively tugged at his collar; his Adam's apple bobbed. A faint flush rose beneath skin that was almost too pale from lack of sunlight, somehow radiating vigorous, youthful vitality instead of fragility.

‘The window frame looks beautiful; such a great job. From now on the boss will come looking for you to fix things.’

‘I don’t take this as any trouble,’ Illuga muttered. ‘Cheers, Mr. Flins.’

‘Alright then. “Cheers”.’ *

3

Flins sauntered past the Flagship entrance amid the commotion, glanced curiously inside, and smoothly plucked away one little nightingale.

'How come you're alone?'

'The old man told me to deliver some things, but you weren't at the lighthouse.'

'I see. My, my - even my little habits have been figured out. Young Master's intelligence work is not to be underestimated.'

Illuga seemed completely accustomed to this routine. Expression unchanged, he found a table, sat, and began rummaging. Perhaps the Starshyna's tasks were too miscellaneous, or funds had been tight lately - the package stubbornly came undone; an armful of items immediately scattered everywhere.

Flins smiled silently, bent to pick up snacks and medicine near his feet. Just as he was about to hand them back, another deeply scarred hand reached from the other side, quietly gathering the fallen objects and setting them one by one on the long bench.

When placing a dagger engraved with the Lightkeeper emblem, the aged hand seemed reluctant, gently stroking the faded mark before setting it down.

In this vast frozen land, unsolicited help was rare - far rarer than the old military coat the man wore. Many years old, standard-issue, colour faded beyond recognition, yet the patches were sewn with care. Two tall young men - one much taller, one noticeably shorter - turned to look. The old man grew visibly uneasy, lifted his cup and drank several quick gulps, then choked violently - like an old broken bellows on its last breath.

Flins glanced at the nearly empty cup: the cheapest stuff, sometimes free refills on festivals.

'Are you alright, sir? Thank you! If you don't mind, may my - my friend and I join you?' Illuga quickly patted the man's back, motioning Flins over. Flins didn't expose Illuga's obvious intention to share some food, simply lifted his coat hem to sit.

'...deserter...'

'...down on his luck, brought it on himself...'

'...tell them to better stay away... bad luck…'

Before they could settle, the whispers rose like a scratched ballroom record. The old man had been huddled in the corner - probably to escape exactly this inescapable gossip. He lowered his head deeply, avoiding the two Lightkeepers, gripping his cup tighter. The hands that had just held so many things curled into fists and began to tremble finely.

'Sir, you saw the dagger,' Illuga said after standing stiffly a moment, pretending not to hear the murmurs. He sat down heavily. 'Small nick - don't know how to fix it, but couldn't bear to throw it away.'

The skin at the old man's neck twitched as though he might look up, but in the end his gaze stayed down, like a statue frozen in time. After a long while he began to murmur - about what ore to use, what furnace temperature to hold, how many times to hammer. By the time the second round of drinks arrived, his hands had finally stopped shaking.

'I... I'm not trying to drink your liquor...' The old man startled awake, explaining in panic. 'I have money, I have - '

'No need, sir,' Illuga waved it off. 'You just taught me something incredibly valuable - I should be thanking you! Stay more a while, please. I just ordered a plate of fried meat.'

Anticipating refusal, Flins spoke up too: 'Drinking on an empty stomach isn't good for you. Look - my stomach's already growling. Please do us the honor of sitting with us a bit longer. This young friend still has a head full of questions for you.'

****

They watched the old veteran shuffle away until the heavy door closed. Only then did Flins speak: 'You were planning to keep it as a memento, weren't you?'

'Yes, but if it can be repaired... No one would refuse another weapon.'

'Headquarters surely has someone who knows how.'

'Who knows. At least now I've picked up another skill.'

'How did you know the gentleman used to handle logistics - specifically weapon forging?'

'Easy. Look at his hands, and the way he gripped the dagger...' Illuga blinked slowly. 'Wait. You're fishing again, Mr. Flins.'

Silence, only occasional whispers from the next table. Flins pressed Illuga's arm through the sleeve. 'I never realized Young Master was such a drunkard.'

'N-no such thing!' Illuga protested, but he did look dazed. He swayed left and right before finally pillowing his head on the scarred tabletop. The obstinate young man's voice was very small, but Flins heard every word clearly: 'I'm perfectly sober... just a little dizzy... no fishing. No.'

'That's certainly an injustice. I always speak plainly.' Flins crooked a finger; the remnants of liquor across the table obediently arced into his own mug. 'That dagger came from the Starshyna, didn't it? It's got some years on it. Materials and craftsmanship in old days - few people remember now.'

Illuga stayed silent, head buried, feigning unconsciousness.

'However, you were sure he would know.'

Still no response.

Light clinks of knife and fork. Sizzle of flame on fat. Flins gazed at the stubborn, soft cowlick within reach - wanting to laugh, yet somehow unable.

'You've been off ever since someone mentioned deserters.'

Illuga finally let out a muffled sound. 'That obvious?'

'No.' Flins paused. 'You're no deserter. Never were. I don't think he is, either. People are too harsh on survivors - how many remember that those who live through it carry far more wounds?'

The tavern was hot. Illuga's coat hung half off his shoulders; from this angle the crisscrossing scars stood out starkly.

'Besides - surviving isn't your fault. Or ours.'

'”Ours”?' Illuga's head snapped up, eyes round. 'You?'

Flins chuckled inwardly, face perfectly serious. 'Ah - that's another story.'

'You always do this, Mr. Flins!' Illuga protested, looking around. 'Where'd my drink go?'

The bartender passed by and laughed. 'Kids shouldn't drink anyway. Hey, we've got great juice here. Want to try?'

Illuga flushed redder than if he'd downed three Fire-Water in a row. 'I'm not - '

‘OK, okay - not a kid.' Flins smoothly took over. 'Speaking of which - I've always been curious. How did you get in earlier?'

Illuga remembered the argument at The Flagship's gate, how Flins had talked him inside. He flopped forward again. 'Came with my teammates. Crowd gets me past.'

Flins touched his own lips. 'Sigh. Maybe come less often then. Penultimate time a child, last time a lady, this time an old gentleman. Next - who knows.'

Illuga shot back: 'I didn't lure anyone!'

'Exactly.' Flins tapped the table in steady rhythm, hypnotic against the room's drifting shanties. 'You're my Young Master, not your majesty. You can't carry every burden, or you'll never grow tall.'

'Talking those weird words again...' Illuga's eyes half-closed, voice light as fire floating on water. 'I'm going back.'

'So soon?'

'Any later and I miss the vessel.'

'You know you could stay at my place.'

'Not proper,' Illuga struggled upright, talking himself into it. 'I'm going back!'

'Then allow me to give you a ride.' Flins didn't expose the bluff, simply helped adjust his clothes and accompanied him to the pier. Two Lightkeepers - tall and short - each carrying their own sphere of light, passed foam-lashed reefs, crossed the deck, the pier, flower-lined paths, climbed slowly to the high places of Piramida, and finally stopped where the lighthouse came into view.

****

Illuga turned the doorknob, then turned to face Flins. The cold wind along the way had sobered most of the alcohol, but dizziness still lingered.

He repeated: 'I'm going in.'

Flins looked into his eyes. Brows lifted ever so slightly; the outer corners softened in a gentleness faint as catching the scent of flowers through double windows. Yet to Illuga those warm amber tones felt strangely comforting - perhaps because of Aedon. Tranquil night settled over the tall young man; curling hair-ends flowed like spilled moonlight.

Flins opened his arms, and tilted his head a little:

'May I?'

- The End -