Chapter Text
throwing yourself off the ledge of a secluded sea port with your forearms slashed in lines following your veins and cinder blocks crudely tied to your own ankles sounds not unlike a medieval torture method, but alas that is the exactly what you had done an unclear number of hours ago. anything to get the job done, you thought.
sick of it all, you were. years of waiting for days to end so that weeks could end. you were hurrying towards something– but what? at this rate, nothing much of note other than your own death at the end of all of it. what use was it to wade through all of that trying and failing? what, do you get a reward or something? no, nothing. just cold, hard soil; far too gracefully named “eternal rest”. thus, why not face death instead of having to bear the weight of waiting for it to finally catch you?
however, by some twist of cruel fate, or maybe quite a merciful one, the end of your tale was extended.
–
flins strolled along the glistening shores of paha isle, only daring to wander a distance away from the cemetery because the recent activities of the wild hunt had slowed down. the night was so incredibly tranquil, the azure hues of the waters seeping into the sky as the gentle chilled winds blew in from the snezhnayan winter in tandem with the waves on the beach. most would find the scenery of nod-krai frightening in the night, flins knew. as such, he always tacked a gracious warning onto the back of his greetings in between traveling merchants and wanderers, never missing the chance to give them a small fright as well. however, the inky night was much less hostile to one who’d spent lengthy years in it. especially without the presence of the wild hunt, even the average human wouldn’t find the shadows in the crooked trees, rocks, and tall shrubs as dark. away from the plentiful artificial lighting of nasha town, the lights within the flowers and scattered khuuvaki was plenty enough to illuminate the area to a brilliant ultraviolet.
to flins, it was still a breathtaking sight– that is, if he had one. nonetheless, the scene kept even the long lived lightkeeper stopping in his steps every time. much different than the ethereal, haunting cold of snezhnaya’s snowy plains and fae that would definitely deep into ones heart if present for long enough, the bite of the land buzzing with such life reminded flins of why he kept fighting.
out of the corner of his eye, he spots something. drifting unnaturally in the shallows of the water, contrasting the serenity of moments ago like a sonata ongoing for decades suddenly thrown awry by an out of tune note, was an even inkier blot. a vaguely lifelike shape, even? his heart rate, if he had a real one, would’ve spiked slightly, the unease instead showing in a slightly warmer hue in his usually unnaturally cool blue-flamed lantern. making his way over, the inkblot took form as a human body. with clothes soaked through and streaks of blood in the linens, the shape bobbed with flickering, weak life. his near instinctive protectiveness kicked in, not missing a note since he awoke from that long sleep to save the stranded ratniki all those years ago, to mixed results. more innocent human blood spilling from his inaction– something he could not allow to happen again.
flins fished the body from the shallows, pale form draping over his arms like a silk scarf. far too delicate. unmoving. he waited, judgement held strung taught as his eyes searched the form for a sign of life. a twitch of the eye, or the cheek, a flutter of the veins and muscles in the throat, a grumble in the lungs or abdomen. pulling a now slightly sullied black glove from one of his hands, he gracefully rests two fingers on the body’s neck, searching for warmth or pulse. quietly, panic would take hold in his mind, but still he cared for the form with practiced precision and gentleness; arranging your limbs carefully on a dry, soft patch of grass artfully, propped up in the event of seawater coming up your esophagus. his fingers find the raw gashes on your forearms, his battle-steeled eyes softening slightly at the sorrowful sight. unable to let himself falter, he gives a part of your arm with now healed, certainly older, smaller cuts a firm squeeze like you could even feel his comforting touch before turning away to find the nearest source of fresh water to rinse your wounds.
he’d do a better job with ointment he knew he had back at home, but it’ll do for now.
growing anxious, it was the first time in a while flins couldn’t differentiate a second from a minute or an hour. it seemed like far too long since he’d seen a rise of the chest– hardly 30 seconds, but he knew it like a routine, the fragility of a human life. hands clasped solidly on your chest, he began compressions on your chest.
he neglected counting the total seconds, only knowing he’d done it until a dull pain settled in his arms and shoulders and he heard coughing and sputtering from your chest, a mix sea water and bile piling out soon after. still, your eyes did not open.
he leaned back, pulling himself out of the trance-like state of focus he’d put himself in moments before, taking in the sight of your resting body. his cold, smooth fingertips brush your matted hair away, careful to gently remove them from the scabbing cuts on your face. the ball of flins’s palm rested on your neck rising slightly to the flow of the blood through your jugular, struggling to keep you alive, reveling in the warmth of a human body. it’s a sensation almost new to him because it’d been so long since he last felt it. the fae let his thumb run along the crest of your eye before hastily heading back to the lighthouse. you’d catch a cold if you stayed in your soaked clothes for any longer, he worried. cursed this beautiful view for pulling the both of you so far from safety.
–
as he mutters a polite “my apologies” before removing the soaked, dirty clothes from your body, flins fetches and drapes a soft robe on you. if you were awake, the soft, dry linen would’ve almost felt like a hug compared to the relentless ocean cold you last remembered. with nobody around to listen, it might have been a little silly, a man talking to himself. but hardly did he have it in him to think about that. for some reason, he could feel he was particularly inclined to take care of this one human. he places you on the bed; luckily, he thinks, the linens are hardly used.
next, he took to caring for your wounds. the burns from the rope around your ankles peeked out from the robe, and the sore purple struck him particularly as cold, compared to the warmth gradually returning to your complexion. the sickly purple couldn’t help but remind him of corpses he’d seen. such was the fragility of human life. without a break in his gentleness, he pulled bandages over ointments over the dents and rubbed soft circles into the areas around it to get the blood flowing again.
as he made his way up, finally finishing dressing the wound on your left arm, you twitch, immediately alerting the fae, his pointed ears making their way out of his indigo hair. his hands leave your arm, resting in his lap courteously and sitting back straight. he figured he'd wait for you to speak first. he musn’t frighten the human, he thought.
–
the first thing you feel is sharpness in your entire body, a searing sensation unlike anything you'd felt before– quilted by something softer. then, a burning in your throat before you jolted up hurling the remaining seawater from your throat. your entire body felt bloated and swollen, and the force of the choking made it feel like it was crushing against your skull and ribs. you feel a solid hand on the small of your back. soft, he had initially decided. but, with humans and their typical fears of ghosts and the like, he elected on lending you a more solid, reassuringly human hand.
this hand holds you steady and gradually starts smoothing down your back, down every vertebrae of your spine as you began to catch your breath. now it was more obvious, where the aching originated– down your lap and your legs were several scattered bruises and small but fresh wounds. essentially a thousand paper cut in salt water. and even more, pain to the point of numbness in your forearms almost rendered them unmovable. your recollection of what you'd done however many evenings before began to return.
finally, you turn to the side, toward the origin of the hand of your back– the man. only how had the realization that you were clothed, dry, and… not cold began to dawn on you. your words trip on a pang of guilt and something you didn't quite recognize, and you let out a scuffed “sorrydidyousaveme who are you?” a new source of warmth swells in you out of embarrassment, you feel it rising to your cheeks. instinctively moving your hands to your face, you wince again, another wave of pain locking you in place.
the man reaches out to steady you again, any hesitation he might've had was overridden by his long practiced eloquence. “please, you must not strain yourself. some of the wounds you've sustained are… severe. best not to risk reopening them.”
the tension from your shoulders loosen slightly, your hands falling to your lap again, with a quiet nod. he exhales, and you notice, maybe, or imagine; his demeanor softens the slightest bit to the tune of yours.
“yes, and my apologies. i never meant to startle you. let me introduce myself. i am kyryll chudomirovich flins. though, you may simply call me flins.” his hand, gloved in black, rose to his chest and he seemed to give a courteous bow. gentlemanly, or princely… dare you say royal. had you really died and ended up in some fantasy novel world? the room was far from castle-like, but the air and beauty of the man, the gesture that came too naturally to be some kind of farce; what really was this “flins”?
as if he’d read your mind, he continued. “i’m but a humble lightkeeper. stationed here, on the final night cemetery here in nod-krai. and you, my lady? what may i call you by?”
left wordless, you mutter some answer, nod along to his speech, and even more so his voice which you found incredibly soothing to your increasingly heavy eyes. strangely, you weren’t alarmed at all, and although he graciously led you through his actions from before finding you to now to ease any mistrust you may have had, you let it glide over you. it almost feels like he’s putting you to sleep with something.
“-wait!”
as soon as you felt your eyes about to close, you were startled to consciousness again. “... how long was i asleep?”
the man you now knew as flins, who is now perched on the side of the bed doesn’t startle at your sudden interruption. he only focuses his pupilless, moonlight-colored eyes into yours; the glint of aquamarine being the only thing that broke the tranquil surface. it’s as if he speaks in this measure just to leave you time to drink in his features. the darkness surrounding his irises and eyelids made them glow like the moon’s reflection. the pale light of the false sky made his ashen skin translucent. cut between the sharp angles of his nose, chin, and brows were pockets of the elusive hour which he dwelled in. had he any idea of the trance he could put on you?
the corner of his lips rose into a small smile. “only a few hours since i’d found you, dear,” he replied simply, soothing a wrinkle in your robe.
hearing your name from his lips gave you another twist of emotion in your chest. was it admiration that you felt earlier? already? it made you feel fuzzy, all these thoughts. the numbing, dull pain didn’t help either. you felt drunk… on him. and entirely too vulnerable. however, the drunkenness also means you’re all too eager to follow the buzz. you missed the warmth of touch. of companionship. maybe it is a stretch to call it missing, more like longing. you’d long steeled yourself to loneliness, being entirely of the belief that you were better off alone anyway. people were just people; you worked with them, collaborated with them, acted in accordance with them, got along with them, and went home. you were used to nobody in your corner.
not only now did you remember better what you did, but a little more of why you did it. but oh, of course you weren’t. of course it hurt. thus why you chose the rock hard sea floor over the walls of your family home. at the time, land and sea felt equally frigid. and now, it was time you headed back. you didn’t want to leave, not this slightly warm limbo where at last, something tugged at your heart to stay. going back– leaving this limbo meant it’d all be real again. being alive means that it’s all real again. you’d have to face everyone again, their crocodile faces.
“i… i’m sorry for taking so much of your time, mr. flins”
“just ‘flins’ would suffice, my lady.” he crooked his neck and smiled a serene smile. that smile is dangerous.
“i must be on my way back, sir…”
he pauses, again setting an agonizingly rhythmic pace to the conversation. speaking to this man feels like a dance he’s leading you through; one you’re stumbling through the steps of. it’s frightening– the unfamiliarity, but still you find yourself letting him guide your steps. you feel his unmoving golden eyes on you. with nothing near hostility you’re sure, but still it renders the hairs on your neck upright. he offers a hand, and for some reason you take it. he holds yours, with much more tenderness than anyone would reasonably hold the extremity of a person they’d just met with.
“dear,” he begins, slowly. “it’s far too dangerous out there at night. traveling in the state you’re in surely would make for a death sentence.”
“and hardly a pleasant one at that,” he tacks on with a small chuckle. “there have always been monsters in the dark, here in nod-krai. i’m sure someone such as yourself is aware.”
“...”
“but…”
you can’t help but begin to worry, as more and more of your body gains feeling, about the life you had prior to this encounter. time once frozen in place by the bewitching man beside you seeped though, beginning its flow again. your parents, the look on their faces. what would they do when you came back? who’d wait for you, arms open, ready to love you back into their lives? and what about the home waiting for your return? but you already know, and you dread… of course you’d rather you not go back too. but it’s more like an obligation. just like you’d felt the obligation to put up with it all for x years. an inherent duty to adhere to protocol– not break the illusion, disrupt the flow even if it felt like you were given the wrong instruction from the start. perhaps, this means that with this attempt, you’d again failed to free yourself.
“i must. there are… people i must attend to. my family will worry, my friends will wonder where i am.” it felt like a lie to utter.
it’s almost like he could sense the lack of weight behind your words– perhaps someone like flins could. you thought you’d hid it pretty well, save for a small contraction in your hand. like he could sense even more than that. what you did and didn’t care about, what you wanted, even if you yourself don’t exactly know. he brings his hand in yours close to his chest, unmoving smile and closed eyes face back at you. sincerity? you see the dark rings around his elegant eyes, like fine, inky brush stroke. shouldn’t he be tired too? the moonlight from outside gave him a sort of an ultramarine halo.
"stay."
"please,"
it’s simple, really. no question or contention, like its the only option. not a command or demand either, he is just simply sure. and it’s that he’ll clearly vocalize what he wants.