Archive of Our Own ^beta

Headquarters is quiet, for once. A rare respite for the ranks after a recent massacre, or, maybe more fitting, a licking of wounds, a time to grieve their fellow man.

Flins wasn't part of the expedition—it doesn't make him any less aware of the dour shroud that has settled along the breaking back of the Lightkeepers. A heavy weight because of the loss, whispers and mutterings of if they'd only been quicker, knew when the Hunt would appear; if, buts, would-haves that Flins understands the desire for, but knows they offer no real comfort to those that mutter them.

It is ugly work being a Lightkeeper. Rotten to the core, and yet humans persist for their fellow man, for the love of them, the hope that burgeons bright in their chests for a wish of better.

It's the very thing that has Flins eyeing the tense line of Nikita's back with a wariness that he typically reserves for the things that go bump in the night.

Nikita is not a bad man. Bad. Good. Phrases that suffuse through nearly all of human understanding, interaction, sorting—the very basis of the way they categorize others subconsciously. It has been a difficult thing to understand ever since he's returned to seeking out humans, that their nature does not lean towards playful gentility or carnal mischief, no behavior simply for the thrill of it, no, no, they talk themselves in circles about what is good, who is bad, if they themselves are such paltry definitions to describe the brief flicker of their lives.

Their understanding of these things falls far out of his purview even as Flins does his best to grasp their understanding of the world even with it so different from his own.

He exists, a fickle creature, untied to mortal logic, yet, he tries. Nikita is not a bad man, Flins thinks from his understanding of the distinction. He is loyal, kind, courageous, earnest to a fault, caring of his fellow Lightkeepers as their Starshyna and a beacon for the mortals they seek to protect as an organization.

All things highly praised and revered, an individual Flins himself respects highly. It's why he knows something is amiss. Nikita is not usually so quiet when they meet even if he is laden with the world's burdens, he tries for a smile, a tired attempt and yet an attempt all the same. Before him is a man that is—calculating, a detached, clinical distant look to his features as he refuses to face him, instead looking out from the window of his office.

Flins is accustomed to silence, welcomes it like an old friend most days. Today the hearth-fire that has long laid dead and cold in the coffin of Nikita's fireplace crackles to life to urge this along. There is an unease in this room, a butcher, a barterer, a general standing before him in a man that Flins has often only known as a tired realist.

"Flins," Nikita murmurs, quiet, a tired draw to his body when he finally speaks as his hand stays splayed out on a display of papers Flins can't make out from the entryway. His eyes close, a steeling inhale filling his chest before he lets it free, hand crumpling the rife of documents on his desk, an almost resigned weariness to Nikita's tone when he turns to look at Flins. "I'd like to make a deal with you."

Flins—stills. The fire in the hearth falls silent mid-blaze, even as an old interest festers in his chest, cold heat in his lungs slinking its way free from his core and leeching into the surrounding air, smoke curling from the edges of his mouth at the promise, the inevitable offer. It has been a long time since someone that knows what he is has said those words knowingly, with weight, the resolute understanding that this is a losing game.

Ah. Flins should leave. It would be the polite thing to do even as he craves, heat licking at the wood beneath his feet with the fervor of a starving man in front of a feast. Nikita is perhaps the closest thing to a friend Flins has in this current point of his life, it should be on that alone that Flins dismisses the idea, pushes for this mortal man to take back his words, ignore the very offer falling from his mouth.

He hungers. A baser instinct, a near carnal desire of his nature to incite mischief, to covet whatever fickle fancy catches his attention, the amusement of seeing one's folly come to fruition from their arrogance, the loss of a legacy—the concept of something important.

There will be a permanent mark in the flooring by the morning beneath his feet as Flins considers, far more than he should be doing if the pretense of a friendship was enough to stop his nature. As much as he respects Nikita that isn't enough to dissuade Flins from indulging in his temperament; the Lightkeepers can only nurture so much within him, but this, this isn't something one of them can keep him from.

There's a shadow filling the room, visage flickering as Flins inclines his head, teeth hunger-tipped as he smiles. "How…unexpected of you," is what he settles on, polite in all things as he asses the man in front of him with a new shrewdness. Humans are prone to trickery in these things even if they have no real chance of twisting such things in their favor. Fire burns in the back of his throat as he gives Nikita his full attention. "What is it then, this deal of yours that you seem so eager to make."

For a moment Nikita's mouth twists, rueful, a final hurdle of his own internal debate, his last chance to back away from this, a clemency Flins allow out of his respect for the man even as the gates of his being have creaked open with interest.

Flins waits, silent as death; it is what this human is courting, after all. A deal is a deal even after death, no rest, no end, a damnation that will continue as long as Flins walks the earth. A dangerous game for a mortal, for the sacrificial lamb.

"A child." The words fall in a shaky exhale as Nikita's gaze returns to the horizon. His heart is startlingly loud in Flins' ears, a tremulous thud, the very beat of it betraying his own disbelief in this matter, that he's doing such a thing. "If I gave you my firstborn, willingly, without qualm or struggle—would you protect them."

Ah, loss. No escaping that, either.

Nikita is not a bad man, but this is a selfish desire, an all too human request; a life above another. Not out of malice, no, never any malice against his fellow man, but. Ha, humans. They try to say they love all things in their life equally and Flins knows that Nikita tries, desperately, a man run thin from his love, his aching hope for the future. This is an act of love even as it taints the altar of Nikita's devotement.

Flins tilts his head in consideration. A child is not something he has ever considered before. His interests has always lied in stories and histories, the voices of that which was. A pet, an adornment, a servant even as unique as a mortal had been considered in the old days of the court had not been something that caught his attention.

In the past there were stories of other fae offering favors in return for a firstborn. Many such times humans attempted to renege such deals only to find themselves in far worse sorts than they began. He remembers, even, how one such deal had ended with the very memory of a child that would be had being taken away, that the favor ever had a cost, that the next time they asked for something, they wouldn't remember how agonizing the first go round had been. The court was at time, a petty thing just as it was chaotic.

Word is so rarely given because it was law. What is promised must be or else, and favors given must be repaid. The contents of the bargain doesn't matter, only that it be fulfilled, and oh, in the past did his fellows love to fulfill bargains where they got exactly what they wanted while leaving the unwitting mortal empty-handled. Human logic matters very little in the face of what the fae desire.

Old stories that mortals seem to forget is that—the Fair Folk will get what they want.

"Why?" Flins questions, a quietness to the room as he speaks, a mere curiosity.

What good is a child to him if it is so easily given? He wants not for one of his own, nor a pet to parade around in this new life of his just as he hadn't in his old one.

"Because I love them." Nikita says, an all too human answer; simple, easy, lying through his teeth as he attempts to create a deal in his favor for a thing that does not exist. A route to renege an entity he has known for some years now, the folly of a human. That—that is something that stokes the fire in his chest to life once more.

"Protection, then?" Flins questions, even as he gestures towards the door, the organization, the bleeding heart of the Lightkeepers and their oath as a living thing. "Do you not think the combined effort of our fellow ratniki would be enough?"

A cruel thing to ask, knowing what he does of their death rate, how young so many of them are, and yet, he needs this. This corner Nikita will dig himself into, a raw admission, the shameful fact he's avoiding.

Nikita inhales, a deep drag of air that pulls at his shoulders, a tightness to his posture. "I want them to live," he says, an admittance in a whisper, gaze downcast at his desk, and Flins only just spies the splotch of color on paper, a childish drawing amidst the pages of Nikita's work. "As long as they can, longer than my colleagues, than me. I want them to grow up and experience what it means to love and be loved—truly, honestly, wholly."

Ah, progress. That shameful honesty, enough to whet the palate, to twist ones words in a way that benefits you.

Simple, simple, simple, and yet—something Flins can work with. A child of his own he does not want, but a companion, something to keep, to love as Nikita says so earnestly, is that not a better bargain for him in return for something as benign as protection?

All the same despite their mutual respect, the years they have known one another, Nikita knowing full well what he is, is attempting to spin this on its head, trying his hand at a trickery Flins is gracious enough to use in his favor.

Nikita thinks a bargain like this is a Faustian one where the words matter. Flins is no demon, the idea of souls only interests him as a bartering chip. To make a deal with him is based upon the intent, the want, the desire instead of the specifics.

His friend has no blood children, has not had a lover or companion in the years Flins has known him. There is a child, certainly, but not one that would fall under the umbrella Nikita has raised in this attempt to swindle him.

Part of him respects the attempt, finds amusement in it, laughable as it is, hubris in the making.

Piramida is full of children; orphans of this war against the Abyss, raised under the communal hands of the Lightkeepers or adopted by families in Nasha Town. Which one has pulled at Nikita's heartstrings in such a way he isn't certain, but this is an effort of love as foolhardy to the core.

Perhaps its the very thought of this—seeking him out for a deal that has led Nikita to obfuscate things, an admittance of a failure Flins has no understanding of other than human frailty. Who better to "trust" the life of your child to than an individual that will live alongside them and then even beyond? A near guarantee that they would not be killed by the Hunt, and if corrosion would, eventually, impact them, then who better to be their executioner to shield the human bonds they will foster as they grow?

An utterly selfish bargain, but Flins can understand it. How unfortunate that understanding the reason behind something isn't enough to satiate Flins' own desire to end up with more than the initial offering.

Friendship can only do so much, and while not something Flins typically collects if he's to make an exception for Nikita it has to be everything. A fair trade for a life. Or, at least, as fair as it can be in human standards.

Happiness, love, years, the grief of growth and the fostering of virtues, ideals; everything from this vessel offered on a sacrificial altar.

"I see." Flins says after the thoughts have mulled in his mind, an understanding of what must be done. The words slip from his mouth with ease, a twisting of the defining intent. "The child you bring before me will be taken as mine," feels something in his chest swirl with cold pressure when he catches the way Nikita's mouth tightens, pinched, the stubborn I never said to raise them trickling out of him like a faucet even as Flins chuckles, waving a hand to physically disrupt the assumption, smile flat and eyes shining in a poor mimicry of a guide to safe harbor as Nikita uses his one opportunity to raise objection at the wrong point: "As you said—truly, honestly, wholly. Not to raise, but to take and keep as I see fit, 'til death do us part."

What a shame, to be signed away to be courted by death so young regardless of how gentlemanly its form may be.

"No." Nikita says, a bite of a word as his chest stutters with caught air, a desperate notion that makes Flins' mouth quirk at the edge. "I didn't offer that."

How foolish.

Flins is two things—one has become a shed skin as the years have passed and the workings of the world no longer suited that first role he had found himself in. Yet even as the skin is left behind to sink into the earth it was no less a role he had played and lived, carries in his countenance and interactions even now.

Power, safety, lands, alliances, politicking, all these things were prevalent in the court of the past. Is this no different than two nobles arranging a deal? The only difference is that Flins had not ever thought he'd end up being part of a bargain of protection as a marriage price.

The other cannot ever be fully discarded or altered in a way that would be able to satisfy human understanding. All he can do about his very being is hold his desires tight to his chest and continue this play at emulation.

"Did you not?" Flins inclines his head, a finger tapping at his lip even as the fireplace crackles back to life, a steady lick of flames in its hearth. "To be loved, you said," Flins continues, tone low and even as if he were reciting a report after patrol. "Truly, wholly, honestly—is that not a marriage?" he questions. "Have you not put forth a bargain made for safety in its return? Did you not yourself offer a child to me in return for a life lived well and long. Is that not the same thing as a marriage?"

It was common in the court. Human and Fae nobles alike made arraigned marriages for every little thing under the sun. Land, most often. Protection from a mutual enemy for another. Sometimes those to be wed were young, puppet figures, marriages only in word because that happened to be the most valuable thing a family could offer to rend a deal unbreakable. Rarer outcomes, and yet they occurred enough that those in various courts eyed the arraignments with curious, critical eyes, or snide, snappish tones.

A spectacle to witness in the past.

A fear for parents in this age of Teyvat Flins has come to understand, if only briefly.

To him this is no different than an agreement in word, a penance to be paid, a punishment only for a slight attempted against him with no intent toward anyone aside from Nikita for that breach of understanding.

A transaction at the very core. The deal has already been set, the ink long dry as soon as Flins spoke his own acquiesce. The offering will end up his no matter what in the grand scheme of things, there was no escaping this outcome the moment Nikita even broached the topic of a deal; all the could have changed, in the end, was the price.

Nikita swallows the paper beneath his hand scrunched into a mess of ink and paper. "What, what if they do not love you?"

Ah, such a silly thing to care about.

Flins blinks, placid. "Surely that is not a matter to be concerned about. Few marriages in the past were mutually in love." Indeed even this, the love Flins can follow is a concept, the idea; to love the child Nikita holds so dear is to do them the service of keeping them safe, alive.

For a moment Nikita stares at him, mouth slack, posture leaned away in bewilderment, then pressing, persistent: "If they find love, what then—would there be a punishment for them?"

Where could they go that Flins could not follow? What concern is there to be if that child finds someone in the years to come? They are Flins' certainly, and shall remain so until they die, the idea of a second, third, even a fourth love if they so found in their short life is inconsequential when there is no escaping his reach and presence. Mortal love is an inevitability, not a consequence; concubines, secondary spouses, paramours of the various kind were an expectancy at court, regardless of any such matters there will be no uprooting Flins from his station.

"The child is mine," Flins says not unkind, a hand pressed against the void of his heart, smile tinted with the edge of his teeth. "That will never change until they die. It does not mean I intend to keep them from living—that is, after all, your wish." Then quieter, more sincere, heat licking across his tongue and into the open air in bursts of rippling blue, "Just like the coins and jewels I like to collect they shall always find their way back to me."

"How terrible," Nikita laughs, a shuttering tint to it, disbelieving. His hand smooths over the mess of his desk, fingers easing out the wrinkles of a piece of childish artwork, colors vibrant and messy. "I've done this. I've really done this, haven't I Flins?"

Flins smiles, inclining his head, the light of the fireplace dimming as he looks at his old friend. "My condolences," he murmurs, "for your loss. Take heart, old friend, there are worst beasts to have laid a lamb before."

Nikita's inhale is shaky, his smile a strained thing even as his free hand is curled tight at his side, the threads of his gloves taut and tight, fabric straining. How human his old friend is. "You're dismissed." A tired tumble from Nikita's mouth as he closes his eyes to the world, a paltry defense against what has occurred this night.

Flins hums. "As you wish. I look forward to the time when you find it fit for me to meet my betrothed."

Flins is not unused to the occasional lost traveler within the bounds of Nod-Krai. Children are not unusual sights, either. Nasha Town is a host to an active community of them going out and about into the wilds on errands, adventure, or deliveries from Speranza among other entities that use them for the odd job.

As such it is not the sight of a child running about without escort through the Barrens that makes Flins pause in consideration as he makes his way through on a routine patrol. Rather it's the scent that drags in the air—kerosene, heavy in the nose, familiar in its use among his fellow ratniki even as the discussion of shifting to batteries is at an all time high for certain sections of the organization.

He would be willing to write it off as coincidence if he thought the child was one involved with the machinery around Nasha Town or the Workshop as they are wont to using the fuel in their homes or work. Perfectly content to keep an absentminded notice on their heart in the case of the Hunt appearing without warning as it so likes to if not for the lighter scents that cling to them.

The ink that Nikita makes from the soot of his own oil lamps when he runs out of the standard ink pot. Smoky, burnt, almost medicinal if a small bit of pine or wood finds itself in the mixture by accident. It clings to all the ratniki that come into close contact with him, or strangers he escorts while on missions. All possibilities, of course, and yet it catches Flins' attention all the same.

It isn't quite nighttime but the sun is starting to dip below the horizon line, a slow slink into slumber somnolence for the majority of Nasha Town's denizens. Certainly there are night owls among the populace, but few of them Flins has watched setup a trap near the roots of a midsommar berry plant and then scuttle away to hide and hunker down to wait, even fewer have been anything but adults.

Lempo Isle isn't the coldest island in Nod-Krai, but its nights are still an unfriendly existence. Perhaps that is why he stands atop a hill in the Barrens and waits, curious despite himself at the rather mundane act of hunting. It isn't uncommon among the Lightkeepers, and surely not an odd happening to those in Nasha Town, but still, so far from town, so foolhardy, it is too early in the year for a life so young to dim due to their own potential foolishness.

Flins isn't quite certain how long he stays perched upon his lookout. Long enough for the rare lamplight that's been switched for a bulb instead of an oil burner to flicker to life. Long enough to witness the shuffling of foliage, an inquisitive weasel, or mink perhaps, inching its way through the grass of the Barrens its nose twitching with interest. Part of him idles the idea of flickering back into his lamp to wait things out until twilight cradles the land before a twitch of movement has him cocking his head in interest, a snap of bone twitching through his ears, a satisfied puff of air through the mouth, the scuffle of shoes in slick dirt and then a caught yelp as Flins watches the child flip head over feet as they go tumbling down one of the Barrens' hills in their excitement.

Ah. Well. Not ideal.

The ground is slick and uneven here, and while death isn't the most common occurrence from a slip it isn't unheard of for the particularly unlucky. A mundane end, but one that he thinks the child's parents will not appreciate all the same.

Steady on his descent Flins' hums at the shallow thump of a heart, the rush of blood through a body, the whimpering groan of pain that tells him the human is alive. A relief, if only to keep him from reporting a body upon this night.

His lamp burns hot, blue heat licking at the air around them in greedy pulses flickering high as it threatens to become one with his arm as Flins comes to a stop in front of the child with a curious tilt to his head.

"What a grip you have." He murmurs not yet offering a hand, content for the moment, to simply watch and study. Children are an—oddity, even, or perhaps especially, among humans. There are plenty of children in Piramida when he visits, now, but his interactions with them are as limited as he can keep them. Too curious, too innocently prying, too unaware of the dangers they create for themselves.

They're a little thing. Curled up tight around himself now that Flins has gotten this close to see. His hands are rubbed raw from the loose rocks of the Barrens, his coat splattered with dirt and wet grass, and yet beneath the new cuts and the muck, tucked close to his chest and held as a precious treasure is the now perished mink, pristine and untouched eyes unseeing and unable to feel any pain in the state its in now.

Flins understands in a way. Some things are dearly cherished despite their perceived value to others. Though, he can't say in all the years he's been alive that if he found himself in such a state—falling down a hill—that he would hold so fast. Things always return to him in the end, a loosening of his grip has never been something to fear when it comes to his gems, his coins, or his bones.

The boy shifts, slow and easy, and Flins lifts his lamp when they uncurl and sit up, gaze a little dazed from the fall and not noticing how close he is to knocking the top of his head against the base of Flins' lamp. He blinks once, twice, a third time for good measure once he gets his wits about him enough to look up at Flins. "Oh," he breathes, a puff of air, and his shoulders to unknot, ease as some kind of recognition flits through his gaze. "It's you!"

A childish excitement to the words, a puffing acknowledgement Flins doubts he can place with certainty. The boy is looking at his lamp. Ah, it continues then, that old story. Flins had an inkling that it did, but its such a funny thing seeing it in someone so young, that those old expectations shackle him even to this day.

"I fear you're mistaken," Flins starts, gaze fixed downward and tone not unkind as he takes in the boy. The light of his lamp casts the child in a melancholic glow, his skin pale under the burn of it. His eyes reflect warm and stark against the heat of it, his hair illuminated not unlike the moonfall silver on Hiisi Island, or perhaps, like that sango pearl Flins got his hands on when a rare merchant from Inazuma found their way here. A soft curtain of color, moonlit and hazy. "I am just a humble Lig—"

"My old man told me that out of all the Lightkeepers you're one of the oddest, but if anyone gets lost that you're the one to find!" The boy fiddles with the mink in his hand, careful as he tucks its body closer to his chest as if that will somehow allow it to leech warmth from his body, let it hear the soft thrum of his heart, the quiet draw of his breath to calm it. He's still sitting even as he extends a tiny, chubby hand, fingers scuffed and nails gritty with dirt as Flins looks down at him, a growing incredulity in his chest. "I'm not lost," he presses, an importance that falls on deaf ears as Flins simply inclines his head, blinking placid and patient as the boy continues, hand still outstretched. "but it's nice to finally get a face for a name!"

For a moment Flins thinks about how to best approach this. A colleagues' child then, or a family in Nasha Town that interacts with them regularly. The Voynich guild, or the Workshop, perhaps. Children are rather forward creatures, those in Nasha Town even more so than most he thinks. No real inkling on politeness or manners or boundaries.

Gingerly, a hesitant acceptance that only comes from his own portrayal of being a gentleman, Flins takes the hand in his and gives it a quick shake.

"I see," he says, and graciously tamps down the instinct to ask for a name in return. A hard habit to break even after so many years with how humans offer so freely. "A lucky thing you're not lost, then," Flins continues, slipping once more into the veneer of humanity, words a slow tumble when the boy continues to hold onto his hand without reservation. "still, that was quite a fall wasn't it? It would be rather remiss of me if I let you go on your way after such a thing. For a boy that's heard enough about us to know about me, you surely know about what can happen at night." A glance to the creature curled tight and unmoving against the child's chest. "A formidable happening to deal with even for a young hunter."

The boy's laughter is a bite of noise, echoing in the emptiness of the Barrens. "You don't have to speak kindly." He says easy and no-nonsense, sounding, for a moment, far older than the baby fat clinging to his cheeks and his small size would belie. Too old already from this world like all of Nod-Krai's children. His hand squeezes Flins' own, a reassurance Flins does not need and yet is freely given as humans oft do. His smile ticks up, dirt on his cheek scrunching. "You can think me foolish or stubborn or silly," he continues warm, understanding, as if they are old descriptions and conversations had in vain. "I prefer the honesty."

For a moment Flins feels the overwhelmingly human urge to sigh through his nose. Exasperation, maybe. Amusement curling in his chest just as likely.

"It was a good thing, then, that I stumbled upon you while on patrol." is what flows out of him a touch more honest. "It is behavior like this that so often leads to the crafting of a new grave." Perhaps a touch too honest. Flins squeezes his hand back, a fleeting decision, a chastisement in the curl of his fingers against thin skin, soft bone, a gossamer press and release. "A coffin of your size is made with no less care than an adults."

There's a huff of a laugh from the boy, not shrinking away from him in the slightest, only open-eyed interest. "Much better." He says, teeth bright in the burn of Flins' lantern, and then steadier, a little quieter as he tugs at Flins' arm until he bends just the slightest bit closer, a secret passed in the air between them, a childish secret proffered in confidence. "I really needed to get this for my old man…so, it's good that you were here."

They're such naive creatures. Flins remembers a time when mortals were forgotten, banned from the court, lost to the love of the fae and at times—at times he thinks that was a safety for them.

Flins closes his eyes feels the compulsion to push and trick and scheme pulse through him like an old friend that he will never be able to shed, molt free from regardless of how deeply entwined with humans he becomes. A self-fitted collar only idly kept in place. It ebbs as the tide in slow, dragging waves until it recedes back to a calm. Words sit on his tongue honey warm and heavy, sliding sweat and cloying down his throat when he swallows them down to ask something else, far more befitting of a kind human stranger: "A true effort, an earnest one I'm sure he'll appreciate, but first shouldn't we return you to him, hmm?"

The boy's smile grows tight, a nervous kind of twitch to his hand when Flins' fingers curl around his wrist, nails ghosting over skin. "Ah, well, could I have a moment?"

He's not attempted to do more than sit up this entire time now that Flins gives it a moment to think. Tilting his head Flins focuses his gaze southward until he spots the reason. Swollen and already dusting with color is the child's ankle. The fall had, it seems, actually done some damage to him.

A hum in his throat Flins settles into a crouch, lantern held high in one hand as he lets the other fall away from the child's wrist to instead press careful at the expanse of swollen skin, testing, feeling, judging the damage as best he can in such a place. "How unfortunate," Flins murmurs, to be returning this foolhardy child in a damaged form. "A moment I can indeed spare you," he continues, fingers ghosting away and leaving raised hairs in their wake, to instead hover his hand open palmed at the curve of the boy's hip. "however, if you would not find yourself opposed I can think of a quicker way to return you."

There's a flicker of nerves across the child's face, a bite at his lips as he looks at Flins. "But…" his gaze flicks past Flins' shoulder out to the expanse of wilderness, the slick paths and the dimly lit lights. "What if something happens? Wouldn't I just get in the way?"

Flins feels something threaten to rumble up his throat, mirth so thick in his mouth it burns. How dear, how utterly tenderhearted this boy is, what a foolish worry for someone of Flins' kind. Hand settling more firmly on his hip, Flins asks: "Is that a refusal?"

"It's not that." He mumbles, and that's enough of an answer, really. "I just don't want to be a bur—" it's cut off by an oof as Flins sets his lantern down to heft the boy up into his hold, hair tickling at his cheek, an embarrassed drum ricocheting against the empty cage of his chest as if to beat enough for two when he steadies in Flins' hold, eyes wide and mouth open in bewilderment even as Flins shifts enough to pick up his lamp once more. "Why?"

Flins can't help the laugh this time, a low, abrupt thing at the absurdity in the child's voice. "You were not opposed," Flins tells him, uncowed and unrepentant. "This is much quicker than having you walk, and besides," he continues, am attempt at being kinder, softer in the way his fellow Lightkeepers excel in. "Being a burden isn't something for one so young to worry over. Do you not trust me to be able to do my duty?"

The boy flusters skin bursting into color, blush tinting as purple as a bruise beneath the melancholy of Flins' lantern. "I didn't say that." it's a huff, then quieter, "I just wanted to be able to help and stay out of the way in case."

How terribly dear.

The Lightkeepers care so much about their fellow humans in a way that Flins finds fascinating. They strive for a dream made real with their blood sweat and tears, brick by brick built from their sinew and shattered bones made anew. His interactions with the orphans of Piramida are few and far between outside of the banquets, but even this, this chance meeting cements how deeply their love, their conviction, their short lived lives burn with the heat of the sun for it to entrench one so young in their beautifully tragic martyrdom.

Endearing creatures, strange and earnest, so utterly devoted to their hopes and dreams even as their boots grow soaked with strife and blood. A burning heat on the horizon. To help. To hope. That is what his fellow Lightkeepers strive for night after night, an endless war of attrition, a better tomorrow; a romantic ideal.

They are difficult to interact with at times, to muzzle himself to best move about among the flock, to create relationships that court his fascination while leaving their own unfulfilled, and yet Flins is fond of them all the same. Their tenacity and rallying cry, an existence so small and slight yet able to achieve so much in their limited lives.

Still. A child all the same. Too young to worry about such a thing at this point in his life. "Let your worries be forgotten," Flins murmurs as he feels the boy shift in his hold, a hand pressing at his shoulders until he can look at Flins' features with a frown. "Such matters should be left to others to handle." When the boy's mouth opens, a retort no doubt on the tip of his tongue, Flins cuts ahead, something like amusement swirling in his gut at the puff of his cheeks. "Tell me a story."

"Why?" How insistent.

"Why not?" Flins returns wishing for only a moment he could let his lamp float aside him to better keep the child steady. "You wished to help, no? I'd like a story in return for my services."

Humans like stories, after all. Their own histories ans achievements, the stories of others both true and fictitious. Flins, himself, enjoys a nice story or two to get a desired outcome. Is this no different?

For a moment they flop their weight against the curve of Flins' shoulder, the collar of his coat jostling from their movement. His breathe is warm despite the chill entering the air, brushing the tassel of his coat, his hair, free hand curling in the fabric of Flins' cape while the other pets almost absentminded over the slick coat of the mink against his chest.

"My old man doesn't know I'm trying to get him a new ushanka and gloves made." it's a mumble against the curve of Flins' shoulder, quiet and tentative, a sincere gift proffered unknowingly to his collection. "A few hunters in Nasha Town said this was the best spot for weasels or minks if I wanted to try my hand."

"My, what a thought, to be sneaking out so far under your father's nose, are you not a mischievous little creature?" Flins starts, laughter inching across his tongue until it tumbles out of him even as the child curls their fingers into the leather of his cape and tugs in an embarrassed reprimand that only makes him chuckle more. "You misunderstand," Flins tries once more even as his chest swells with something warm and heavy at the snapped you're making fun of me! because oh, this child, speaking freely and honestly, so without fear even out at night and with company not truly known to him, does not hold his tongue. What a foolhardy boy, how fortunate it is that Flins encountered him instead of a wayward Treasure Hunter or vagabond. "I think such playful trouble seeking is needed in such an endeavor. How else would you get the materials you need for such a gift if you didn't take matters into your own hands." ]

Their heart thuds loud in Flins' ears, a soft stuttering inhale through their chest as the child stills in Flins' hold. Terribly sincere: "Everyone else said I was being silly."

"Perhaps," Flins says, not unkind. "It could be a silly thing to go where it isn't safe without any help, but I find it a laudable endeavor all the same. Though," he adds after a moment as he considers that the 'silliness' perhaps comes more from an idea of concern than it is real chastisement. "if you intend to do such exploring in the future a partner in crime, as they say, would not be a foolish thing."

They fall quiet for a moment, a rustling to their inhales and exhales, mouth screwed into a purse, a quiet kind of surety when they speak gaze held with Flins' own, as if he is the child. "It is not a kind thing to ask someone to be haunted by a feeling of danger, I thought it a nicer act to keep it to myself."

Flins can feel the edge of his mouth curl despite himself, an interest sparking low and faint in the same way his fellow Lightkeepers engage his interest, a stoking of coals. "What a frightful thing to be convinced of while so small. What, then, would you think of someone else already haunted, as you say, by a feeling of danger?" It's a fickle thought in his head, a fleeting offer out of his own amusement, made only to satiate his own curiosity.

After all is he not a kindred spirit in such a thing? A haunting over his life? Danger infests Nod-Krai as a wound, tearing it asunder as the rot spreads, festering with abyssal influence and old worries renewed in this time. Flins knows life in the humans around him but it is death that courts his every step, steeped as his in snuffing out the Wild Hunt and its rot. Not a different danger, he thinks, from what the boy implies in omission and glances around them; a death that follows them through life, lapping at their heels, eager and hungry for scraps.

There's a grumble from where the boy fits himself into the curve of Flins' shoulder once more, a temporary shelter he's found hunched against Flins' body made just warm enough to trick these senses, a warm body to be cradled against instead of a blaze snuffed within a vessel. "Everyone I know that would understand works with my old man and they'd just try to keep me from going out until I'm older, like they always do."

How loved, then. What a shame it would have been if that fall had done more than twisted an ankle, if Flins found himself witness to blood staining the grass. Children are such fragile things, but in his age he's wont to forget.

Dear, oh dear, perhaps he does need something new in his life, fleeting as it may end up, to ensure he takes more care the next time such a bout occurs. Tedium does seem to crop its head at the most inopportune moments after all, and what is a good blade if kept dull?

The light of his lantern seems to brighten as they crest down the final hill of the Barrens as Flins hefts the boy higher, eyes burning bright and mouth dripping with devilry. "Everyone?" he presses.

Something in his chest smolders to life at the scrutinizing turn to the boy's features when he looks at Flins with a new kind of understanding. What a funny thing to be looked at as if he's but a hound brought before a judge, curiosity humming in the back of the boy's throat, hands curled over the line of Flins' shoulders in the manner one might check an animals haunches, head tilting as he holds Flins' gaze undeterred and unflinching even as Flins smiles just enough to show the edge of his teeth; the stability of him, his temperament, if he will bite.

"No?" Flins questions, a patient turn to the word.

"I'm thinking."

"How thorough." Flins says in a hum, amusement rolling in his chest at the huff the boy gives. "I do believe this is the first time I've felt as if I've fallen short with nary a word being spoken for why."

Another huff, more of a laugh than anything mean-spirited in this instance. "You're notorious for being a bit of a homebody." Which, isn't untrue, but it is the first time Flins has ever had to content with the fact such a description is coming from a child.

"Really?" Flins asks, a play at genuine confusion. "I thought I was doing rather well with interacting with my peers and the occasional merchant, after all, even one so young seemed to know of me."

There's a little laugh, a bubbling noise from the child's throat as they smile in earnest. "A collector of stories and antiques," he starts, something warm in the way he seems to parroting words from someone else. "a well spoken man if prone to staying by himself aside from visits to town for inquiries about his interests, a hardworking ratnik despite the loss of his old squad, a good hand at cards, allergic to paperwork and known for the blue of his lamp. That's how my old man and some of my aunts and uncles describe you Sir Flins. So you see," he continues even as Flins' mouth settles into something a little more sincere, a little warmer at the thought of his fellow Lightkeepers. At least, that is one mystery solved. "How can you be a good partner in crime if you're so far away?"

"A fair assessment." Flins allows, head dipping in acknowledgment. "And yet, now, I find myself rather curious." It's a creeping engrossment, as fickle as his nature that rouses its head the longer Flins engages with whatever catches his attention in a moment, a dangerous thing in the past but now simply something he attempts to dissuade himself from out of politeness for the mortals he interacts with.

Still, sometimes. Sometimes Flins foregoes the genteel pretense of what he is to indulge in his baser instincts, a treat for good behavior that he savors and then tucks away as a trinket to, only on occasion, take out and enjoy for his own satisfaction. No harm meant, no harm intended; a mere engagement with his nature for the humans he feels a fondness for as fleeting as it may be, or a signification of someone to remember for reasons both ill and kind.

The child, dear and naive, and so terribly earnest gives Flins his full attention, a genuine curiosity warbling through their words. "About what?"

The lights of Nasha Town's entrance blink bright in the night around them, the whir of gears and kuuvhaki loud in his ears even still so far away. Dear, it seems things will be coming to a close soon, how unfortunate. All the same, an opportunity to indulge is still before him, a quiet contained thing that Flins cannot convince himself to forsake when there will be no damage done. Fae are fickle thing, but is he not the most benevolent of options around? Does he not follow the Lightkeepers oath?

"You seem to know so much about me," Flins says a hum in his throat as the words fall from his mouth, an honest curiosity to him that he feels no shame in before a child. "It makes me feel rather remiss in my duty of returning you safe and sound. What kind of guardian, even one so temporary as I am, doesn't know what to call their charge, hmm? Nor what to call them as they bid farewell?"

A sealing that will do the child good. Certainly Flins will be taking their name, but to bid them gone is just a safety, a declaration of a kind, to give his word on their separation and behold himself to a one-sided bargain of doing no more at their parting.

It is all he can do for the mortals he has a fleeting interest in.

"Oh," the boy says, a whoosh of air from his chest, the puff of it a cloud from his mouth. Almost sad, a downcast turn to their mouth, an unfeigned, "I'm sorry that wasn't very polite of me," that Flins kindly does not latch on to, as the child continues, sincere and trusting in a way that Flins knows his kin would feast upon as vultures watch a dead animal on the road. "I'm Illuga," and his smile is open and free as the sky above, his fingers curling almost nervous in Flins' cape. "Thank you for escorting me back, everyone was right—you are the person to find if someone gets lost."

Oh dear. How fortunate that this is just a coincidental meeting.

Flins closes his eyes, feels the words wash over him even as a seeds sow in the curve of his ribcage. "Of course," he murmurs, a quiet thing as he pushes the words away with a practiced hand even as his chest smolders at the unknowing debt that has been placed in his hand to reap on whatever day he would so wish it. "It is my duty to see you returned, as I said. Still," he continues looking around the plaza of Nasha Town. "I have not quite returned you yet. You only mentioned the hunters here, not where we might find your father and I am not a creature prone to leaving my word unfulfilled."

"Oh, right," Illuga wiggles in his hold to get a look around them, a hum in his throat when he gestures towards a familiar walkway. "I snuck out of the side rooms of the Flagship while he was talking to people!" Then, a little more tentative, body hunching once more against Flins' own, a whisper near his ear: "Do you think when we get a little closer you can put me down? I don't want my old man to worry."

Such a childish desire, to hide one's aches and pains. A sweet notion albeit misplaced in the grand scheme of things.

"As you wish," Flins says. An easy enough request to fulfill as these things go.

Nasha Town is not unknown to him in any meaning of the word, but there's an oddity that strikes him as he strides through. The occasional confused glance is expected, it isn't every day the people around see him, and even less often that they see him with a companion of any kind. It is typically other Lightkeepers stationed around town with tag alongs or an individual curled atop their backs when the Wild Hunt pops up somewhere without warning and require shepherding. It is that thought that makes him realize what's so off as the two of them make their way closer to the social center of Nasha Town.

There were no Lightkeepers around the outskirts to hail upon their arrival, and none he can spot lingering around the square. His gaze flickers down and then towards the Flagship. Well. How fun.

"You are a light footed thing aren't you?" Flins asks, amusement swirling between his teeth as he looks down once more at Illuga. "To be able to sneak out from a meeting with so many Lightkeepers unnoticed."

Often most important meetings are held at headquarters, the stronghold of their existence, where the flame of their oath burns brightest. Though, on occasion, when communication gets scarce or broken, captains and squad leaders converge to disperse what information or changes they've been tasked with to the best of their ability. Even rarer the Starshyna himself will venture out to check on things, but it's been a decent bit of time since Nikita was last able to pull himself away from headquarters.

He'd missed that meeting on account of being out when a messenger was supposed to arrive at his abode.

Illuga flushes, pleased if the quirk of his mouth is anything to go by. "I've had plenty of practice from all the times my old man has taken me out hunting with him."

"Enough practice to return with a prize."

"No," Illuga mumbles in return, a shy tinge to it as Flins stands still for a moment outside of the doors. "I just got lucky Sir Flins."

"No," Flins says, a sincere thing he allows on account of this being a prerequisite for a farewell. Careful, as if the boy is one of his more fragile trinkets, Flins sets him down on his own feet, politely looking past the wince that crosses Illuga's features as he continues. "The only thing that can be considered luck is my stumbling upon you."

Illuga's cheeks burn as red as the mulled wine served within even as he murmurs, "that's nice of you to say Sir Flins," even though the both of them understand there's an unspoken belief Illuga doesn't continue with. If only he was as childish in his thinking with this notion as he is in hiding his aches.

Instead Flins allows himself to straighten to his full height and stills his tongue from any teasing. "Ready?"

There's a thread of nerves that works itself through the knot of Illuga's spine and across the berth of his shoulders, an anchoring to the seabed of his spine with how heavy it looks for one so young, a hesitance befitting him that sits at odds with whatever thoughts flit through Illuga's mind at the moment.

Flins expects for a hand to curl in the fabric of his pants as he's seen human children do with adults around them. Illuga, instead, slips his hand into Flins' own, a nervous flexing of his fingers against the leather of Flins' glove as he tucks himself closer to the length of Flin's body, mink tucked under his chin, the first time he's truly looked his age; nervous of how his father might react to him being returned out of the blue all while he's supposed to be tucked away and safe in a room.

He's so warm, a furnace within such a small body. What an odd thing to notice only after Flins's has set him down. Something in his chest wavers, a flicker he thinks most people would equate to fondness, a squeeze that makes him feel as someone has sank their very hand into the depths of his chest and taken hold of his core; a moment of vulnerability that could snuff him out as one does smoldering coals and yet only cradles the truth of him, a gentle hold.

"Okay," Illuga says in a whisper, then once more as if assuring himself, a steadier squeeze to Flins's hand when he says more sure, more certain: "I'm ready now."

Oh, dear. What an endearing little spark he's found. Flins is half-tempted to pluck a piece of him to devour in entirety. It would be Flins' right, as the holder of this boy's name, and to use up the debt Illuga unknowingly crafted himself.

Perhaps this very night. A fleeting memory for the boy that he will lose over time, anyway, as human memory is wont to do. Flins could simply—nudge that timeline along, quicken its erasure until its sits whole and content in the vessel of his body to taste and experience whenever he may so desire as the years pass, lost to this child, made but a dream or an illusion.

Flins closes his eyes, squeezes gentle, ever so soft against the steady pulse beneath the pads of his fingers as he lets Illuga continue to hold his hand. Waves the idea of taking something away with a rueful craving that will linger long after Flins has returned to his lighthouse and bid the child goodbye.

"As you wish," Flins says and eases the doors open, a pulse drumming through his ears, skin tingling from a heat not his own, unobtrusive and yet seeking, sinking into him inch by inch until Flins is certain he feels it take root around hearth-fire of his existence. An insistence that it will not be harmed, set asunder from the heat, only a content warmth that will see it flourish.

A throng of Lightkeepers, a bulwark made up of bodies, a single entity raising its head at the intrusion, mouth baring teeth as they shift as one to look towards them. Hackles raised for all of a moment before the recognition lights in their eyes, a softening of the demeanor, tail tucking and teeth hidden once more.

There's a bark of laughter among the cohort, a murmured, can't remember the last time he decided to join for one of these, before the laughter ebbs and settles as Flins eases the boy from the hiding spot he's found behind Flins' coat.

"To think I thought I'd be welcomed with open arms after my good deed of the day only to find you making a jest at my expense." He huffs out, mouth quirking at the edge. "I hope you don't mind my tardiness. I'm returning something lost, you see."

It's met with a bit of laughter from some of his companions, those he interacts with the most around Nasha Town. A quiet exasperation from another, a disbelieving, when did you even manage to get out from under all of us, kid? when Illuga eases forward, fingers still tangled with Flins' own even as his chin ducks with a stubborn kind of satisfaction, his own murmured reply of: "Soon as the drinks were brought out." getting another twitch to Flins' mouth.

A snippy little thing despite the trouble he could find himself in. A confidence on knowing when best to try his stunt and getting away with it.

His fingers twitch as the returning huffs of laughter around them are drowned out by the shrill creak of a chair dragging against the floor, something hot flicking up Flins' spine when Illuga's shoulders square, his mouth an obstinate line as he looks ahead at the anxious bark that escapes one of Flins' oldest friends in this room. "Illuga!" Nikita is not an easily frazzled soul, and yet his hands, bare for once in the warmth of a room, pale against the wood of the table are the first sign of his discomfort. "Come here."

His voice is a steady thing even as Flins picks up the distant waver to it, the unease that slants itself against his shoulders, an animal realizing they're cornered.

Ah, well, that certainly changes things.

To most the outburst will come across as a moment of Nikita's reprimand and concern, a disbelief that his boy would slip out from under his nose to gallivant while under the cover of dark when the worst things come out to play. A perfectly normal response, if a bit pitched, but nerves one can convince themself—nerves can do so much when one is rattled.

"I wanted to surprise you." Illuga tells him, a quiet sincerity as he leans more of his weight against Flins, a crutch, seeking and found. There are seeds sprouting within the casket of Flins' ribcage, roots spindly and winding, wound so tight around the bone that if he were a living thing it would kill him to wrench them free.

A deal made, a deal cemented; two sided coin. 'Til death do us part.

"Oh, my," Flins says, a breathy drawl to it as he looks from Nikita to the boy he's been so tempted to spirit a piece of away. His fingers slip free from Illuga's grip to instead settle the palm of his hand against the boy's nape, fingers ghosting over the line of his spine. Feels something content burn low in his chest at the way Illuga leans his weight into the touch. "I never would have imagined I'd be returning something so precious." As he guides the boy closer, his steps slow to stay in time until the two of them reach Nikita's chair, his voice a low murmur when he dips his head closer to Nikita with words fit only for him to hear. "Really, my old friend, you should take more care or you may end up losing it for good far earlier than planned."

Nikita's jaw tenses for a moment before an inhale through his nose sees it relaxing once more. To Illuga, he says: "When we get home I expect a far better answer than wanting to surprise me, you understand? That was dangerous." Waits until there's a mulish nod and then softer when Illuga shuffles closer, arm curling around his shoulders as Illuga buries his face into the waist of Nikita's coat, "Alright, alright, take all my intimidation why don't you, yeah?" A fondness that drips the way wax falls from a candle.

Hand smoothing across Illuga's back, Nikita ignores the inclination of Flins' head as well as the way he settles himself behind Nikita's chair, as he turns his full attention to the Lightkeepers before him, a new bite to his tone. "You all stop your cooing and gigglin', I never said we were finished with our discussion."

Flins knows even though he hadn't even known there was such a meeting—one can never be too careful to avoid random messages from headquarters in case it means even more paperwork to do, after all—and that he could glean new information from paying attention, his focus is fully pulled to the little wave Illuga gives him from where he's smushed against his father's side, his smile a shyly pleased thing.

Ah, how unfortunate. Flins really can't keep any of the internal promises he made today in regards to this boy.

A soft smile graces his features when Flins looks at him and gives a returning wave of his own from the shade of his haunting point.

Perhaps, in a way, it does start as something to appease Flins' own fickle fancy with the revelation of his newly betrothed, if only in contract and mischief.

To have something new that engrosses him so deeply is a rarity in his life, and Flins can wait years and years for most things, but a human—they're so short lived and to wait would mean to see them gone in a blink, and indeed, Flins did give his word to love him wholly even if, in the end, it is mere imitation rather than his own inclinations.

The importance of intent. If Flins chose to love this child as his nature demands what would keep him from fulfilling his end of the bargain by devouring him whole? Would he not then live longer than Nikita and all of their companions as a concept well cared for and well loved within the confines of Flins' memory? Would Illuga not be safest tucked and hidden away in the burn of his chest, death being given new life in the form of Flins' own existence? Is that not to be loved wholly, truly, honestly? Consumed whole, life honestly preserved, truly no separation from this plane of existence until Flins' fire is snuffed out utterly and completely.

What better protection is there in this life than to be made part of his existence.

Nikita would think differently, but even in this deal fabricated by his hand, Flins has always been so gracious in his behavior.

The intent to love as a human does, all blunted teeth and tiring effort, unconditional and endless, all consuming, fascinated with it on days end. An exhausting existence for a being such as he, and yet Flins deigns to meet the challenge, relishes in it now.

Humans are such dear creatures. Their thoughts and feelings, the complexities to which they experience their whole lives with, how deeply and entirely they entrench themselves with what catches their fancy. Not so different from the fae in this instance, at times.

Flins may be taking part in a masquerade at times, but his care is a real thing, a sharp toothed and claiming ardor, and yet real all the same; a raging inferno laying claim to a swathe of land, cleansing it of filth and encouraging new growth.

Is this not the same thing, angle only a tad bit tilted? Is it not now Flins' job to ensure Illuga's safety from any of the filth that invades Nod-Krai, to ensure to growth and happiness? It was the deal he made and Flins' takes a particular kind of pride in seeing a job well done.

And, well, perhaps just a little bit of fun at Nikita's expense.

"I think this is rather unnecessary." Nikita tells him, arms crossed and words gruff underneath his breath, gaze flat as he looks at Flins' on his doorstep for what must be the umpteenth time since that meeting in Nasha Town so many months ago. A record, really, for the amount of visits Flins has paid to headquarters of his own free will outside of formal summons or work discussions.

"Do you?" Flins asks, polite and subdued even as he looks past Nikita's shoulders to the inside of his old friend's home gaze pinpointed on the door that leads to Illuga's room, excited scrounging resounding in his ears.

"Very." A flat reply.

Flins hums, smile placid and not quite reaching his eyes. "Even if it would disappoint your boy so very much? After all, he was rather looking forward to a tour around the other islands was he not?" An accidental overhearing at the last visit Flins paid, unprompted, to indulge the boy when Nikita let it slip that Illuga was asking about him. Illuga has a curiosity too him that expands far past Piramida's reach, and well, it isn't as if Flins can't both chaperone and patrol at the same time. "Would it not pain you to break your promise to him?"

"I can do that," Nikita says, a tired thing, weary as his days grow longer with having to delegate so much with their volunteer forces growing under his leadership.

"Yes," Flins agrees, an easy thing, because this isn't an attempt to undermine or steal away. No, no, he's capitalizing on a very different thing. "Capable at anything you set your mind to, but, would it not do you well to rest when you can? I can indulge my young master—" there's a twitch Flins' has the grace to ignore even as something playful festers in his chest in response.—"for a few hours so you can enjoy a bit of well earned quiet. I would not harm him, you know this."

"He's so young." Nikita says, presses to him, in fact. An almost desperate pinch at the bridge of his nose when he says it. As if Flins is somehow unaware of what a mortal life entails, as if he hasn't seen them pass like grains of sand through his fingers. "I just—think you should take some precaution if you're going to keep showing up like this."

"I would not take him anywhere you would disapprove of."

"That isn't—" Nikita's sigh is a drawn-out puff of noise that has his entire countenance deflating. "Think of the impropriety."

Laughter creeps up the back of his throat, a spindly thing that threads into his very core, disbelief coursing through just behind it. Flins' smile shifts, all teeth, a hand coming up to hide it out of respect for his old friend. "I see," he says, a bridge to tamp down the amusement lest it get the better of him. He clears his throat. "Yes," he says next, "in the past, a, ah, suitor would not be allowed to go with their betrothed unsupervised for quite some time, but, Nikita, my friend, I have left that behind me."

How laudable that Nikita would rehearse himself in the customs of old in earnest after the trick Flins had ensorcelled him with. The safety of his child, before all things, how earnest, how careful. How—terribly—prepared for any tricks of that kind Flins may have wanted to indulge in for fun in the future.

Well. No pulling the wool over his eyes in such aspect for fun, anymore. Flins will simply have to get creative, get older with his frolicking.

Nikita pins him with a stare, mouth a straight line. "You swear it?"

There's a fondness roiling in his chest. Indeed, Nikita is a man worthy of his praise. Flins sets a hand over his chest. "I have no intention of such uncouth interactions without permission." and oh, how trustworthy Nikita must find him to give a stiff nod in return, a gruff, alright then, fine without any further pushing.

"Indeed," Flins finds himself continuing, words thick with teasing, as he spies Illuga finally peaking out from his room, a bag slung over his shoulder and scarf haphazardly wrapped around his neck, voice dropping low so the boy doesn't overhear. "Instead, I find that mortal adage of man's best friend may fit me quite a bit better in this moment, my friend. I am a mere hound at your doorstep, and your boy will feed anything."

It wasn't Nikita that had turned him into a hunting hound. No, that credit can only go to himself, but the humans he's grown so fond of certainly hadn't dissuaded the idea, perhaps aren't even aware of it when they say he has a knack for hunting down the Wild Hunt. He can hear it before it arrives, smell the acrid scent of a festering wound, teeth baring and primed.

All that's changed is the hand that holds his leash. Flins is a polite animal, but an animal all the same.

Nikita's mouth purses, a downward slant to it. "I feel like your jokes have gotten far worse in recent years."

Flins shrugs, noncommittal. "So long as you believe in the staunchness of my character there is nothing to worry about, no?"

"Don't make me regret it."

Even if Nikita did, it isn't as if there would be any way to undo what has been done, and Flins knows the man would not have it in him to dirty his hands in the one way to breach this contract; few parents would be able to take their child's ending in their own hands.

Nikita is a strong man, a sturdy one, well trained and steady in his regimen but he is only mortal. How long could he truly go toe to toe with Flins before he faltered if things ever soured in such an unfixable way between them?

An ending Flins in all earnest wishes to avoid even if things have changed now.

"I shall always take proper care when it comes to your boy." Flins allows, not quite a promise because that already came with his hand.

"See to it you do or I'll start salting his windows and putting a horseshoe above the door." Nikita says a hard honesty to it that only makes Flins smile.

Perhaps if he were younger or weaker such things would be a proper deterrent.

Still, it's a good thing that Nikita would make well on his threats even if they would do little against him. They will protect Illuga from the younger sorts, or less powerful of his kind.

"Then, may I?" Flins asks with a gesture to the door that Nikita has played continuous guard over. Illuga is still perched half way behind his door eyes big and wide, feet shuffling with his excess nerves.

With one final sigh Nikita steps aside easing the door open the slightest bit more. "Come in," he allows and not a moment after there's the thump of feet against flooring as Illuga takes it upon himself to join them. His huff that follows is more fond, then as he pets a hand over Illuga's hair. "You'll keep your manners about you, yeah? No running off where Flins can't see you,and no mischief I wouldn't get up to myself." Quieter, more pressing: "You must never do anything that will put you in danger, you must never let what was sacrificed for you be forgotten, you understand?"

Flins stays still and silent as the words leave his old friend's mouth. He has no say in this matter. He knows, now, only vaguely of the massacre that occurred with the boy's birth family. An overstep, he thinks, if he voices any of his thoughts allowed on this matter.

Illuga's smile twitches, his fingers twitching, expression growing the slightest bit dull. "I know," he mumbles, and leans his weight into Nikita's hold. "I have to grow up big and strong for them."

"That's right." An approving tinge followed by: "You have everything?" A simple fretting, hands going to Illuga's bag, and perhaps Flins had at a point in the past wondered if Nikita would be… a parental figure. Busy as he is, Flins had wondered in the past if it were something he'd be able to balance.

A foolish thing to wonder now that Flins gives it more thought. Nikita works until he gets it right. This would just be another skill he put to the test until he liked the results. Though unlike the title of Starsyna and utilizing breaks as best as he can for everyone in the organization, parenthood isn't something Nikita seems to think one can engage with a break from.

Politely Flins stays by the door unobtrusive and patient as he waits for Nikita to get the last of his fretting out of his system. It's only a day, really, but Flins has witnessed humans worry about far less.

"Flins." At the call of his name he hums in acknowledgement, focus returning to see Nikita is leading his boy to the door. "You'll keep an eye on the weather won't you? Winter storms are coming earlier and I don't want to hear any gossip about you getting Illuga stuck in any of that mess."

"Rest assured, I've made arrangements at The Flagship in case things take a turn," Flins says in an attempt to soothe. He had thought it a far better temporary lodging than his own home. It has actual food, after all, for one. A bed for another. Patrons and other Lightkeepers to engage with that will no doubt take shelter behind its doors. All things that would better serve to keep Illuga happy and entertained over the crypt of his own abode.

Nikita gives a hum of approval, hand twisting the knob to finally allow them out from under his scrutiny. "Good," he says, "good, and Flins—even without one of our regular lanterns I'll find you if I think anything has gone awry. Do well to remember that."

"Of course." It's followed by a little laugh, pleased with the seriousness his old friend is treating all of this with. It's a thrill, really.

Flins feels young in a way he hasn't for half a millennium, as if he's some youngling going about under someone's nose engaging in mischief that his elders would disapprove of. Perhaps, in a way, he is. If the two of them were nobles this certainly would be against proper etiquette. A meeting should not be done without a chaperone, and an outing even less so.

Certainly, he thinks Nikita finds him a far more wicked creature now with that jest of his, but Flins would not overstep in this way. Illuga may be his, and Flins will certainly indulge in the more harmless aspects of such a thing, but there is no ill intent in any of these even as he has fun with his words and actions.

Indeed, he has no interest in seeing his old friend take up a spear to try and stab him with, out of some concern that he would do something so untoward to his bride to be. Such matters are a topic more fit to discuss and organize when the boy was older, capable of understanding what a companionship such as this would be.

All in time, though, all in time.

For now, Flins' only interest is in engaging with Illuga, indulging the wishes he can grant. A fondness has swelled within him for the boy, overwhelming, growing further in intensity as the days pass, an abyssal depth to it.

It is the only time Flins will find himself owned. He is used to owning pretty trinkets and jewels, tracking down the old history of a coin. This is a fascinating existence for him, a shaping of himself to fit, teeth clasped carefully around a throat so openly bared to him, trusting, seeking, attention so freely given Flins finds he doesn't mind this play of his he created.

There is a person he can claim he belongs to, a love of a kind. It is something new he's learned in these past few weeks—how freely a child can adore, how deeply they do in there finite existence, the space of their chest in no way large enough to house all they hold dear, and yet stretches to accommodate in a way that should split them in two.

Illuga's chest has enough room to house Flins' own heart in its nonexistence, he has become it, in a way.

This attention he crafts for the boy, deigns to give as much as he can for his own whimsy and fancy is a polite point on the way to devotion. He cannot love like a human, can only imitate it as best as he understands, but parts of him still escape even as Flins attempts to keep it hidden under lock and key.

His nature demands it of him. Even without this bargain, Flins thinks this child of man would have wiggled under his skin, found a home in the recess of his being, a cradle of effort Flins puts forth just for him.

What a funny thing, for this bargain to find him so off footed at times with his own feelings. It should have been easy, a simple, transactional thing.

And yet.

Yet Flins does care, terribly. Fond since that first meeting. How laughably human to experience such a thing so fast and fierce. Perhaps they're rubbing off on him.

"Young master, if you could wait a moment." it falls out of him unbidden as they're making their way free from the prying eyes of Piramida.

Illuga's nose scrunches, just as lost as his father on why Flins continues to offer such a title to him. In the end it's a simple reason. There is not a more fitting way to refer to the person now fit to hold his metaphorical leash. "But there's only so many scheduled trips to Lempo Isle—we can't bother someone for another in case we're late."

The laughter that tumbles out of him is low and languid. "Worry not my young master, I have made arrangements for us." it is only right too, after all. The expectation to arrange all things, to open any doors, to keep him warm as the days will undoubtedly grow colder, to be the pursuant of any courtship means to take on all the responsibility. "Now, if you would, come here."

Illuga looks up at him squinting in scrutiny. "You really don't like giving away more than you want to, huh?"

Flins smiles as he crouches down on a knee to unwind the scarf around Illuga's neck. "I'm honored that you pay so much attention to me young master Illuga. Might I even say it makes me feel rather special." It drips with teasing, honey dipped warmth on his tongue even as a flicker of heat laps at his belly, self-satisfied and fond.

Illuga knows most people in the organization Flins had come to learn early after their initial acquaintance. Aunts and uncles everywhere to coddle and welcome him even as Illuga shies away from them, a skittish lamb finding solace in the flock's lone wolf.

Scared to get close, to let them in even as lets pieces of himself tangle in spindly web spun adoration around the history of the Lightkeepers, in the stories that cling to his skin in the form of old ink and dust from the archives, with how eager he is to lighten any burden upon the adults around him; a task in the kitchens taken up here, a delivering of paperwork there, sitting quiet and still and patient with the victims of their work in the infirmary, holding their hands so they know they're not alone.

It's a wonder that the boy has so much in him to give when all Flins can think is that—soon, soon there will not be any left to offer, to grace him with, to spare for the creature that roams the wilds with blood soaking his hands and the shadow of death stalking at his heels; Flins is a mere specter brought forth once more to haunt the earth after failing to fulfill that plea to rend asunder the threat of corruption and allow the sight of another day.

What a wonder that this boy, this unflinching, warm boy would find something worth paying attention to in him. Warm as the summer some of his colleagues say, but Flins would venture to say that Illuga burns with the heat of a star, the intensity of the dawn they seek each night, the safety of a new day, a tomorrow to come to experience.

A meager gentleness, a distraction from the noise in his head, that is all he can offer. A mortal offering, a mundane altar.

Illuga flushes, the tips of his ears turning red as he looks away. "How could I not?" he mumbles a shy murmur and Flins feels a brief desire to cup his cheeks and squeeze. Another oddity from the humans he's grown so fond of he thinks. "Even the stories you share always end with a cliff hanger."

Flins hums, considering. Slowly he straightens out the scarf behind Illuga's shoulders before letting it settle along the line of them, hold careful as he brushes the back of his knuckles against the soft plush of Illuga's coat and feels the warmth of him through it and his own gloves. He thinks, if he could, if it wouldn't go against their very covenant, he'd take some of that heat for himself. Pluck it free from Illuga's body from one of his breathes and devour it to tangle with his own internal heat, a wick of light against the backdrop of his being.

Instead Flins shifts a little closer and tucks the scarf into a loop that will hang in front of Illuga's chest as a barrier to his heart, a thin scrap of fabric to stay his hand and deafen the thump of it to his ears to temper his desire to pry it free and take it as his own.

"How else will I ensure that you don't get bored of me?" The words slip from his mouth, a languid honesty as he lets his hand fall to instead offer it for Illuga to hold. Things must be by his terms lest Flins sink his teeth in and draw blood, give himself a taste that will ensure that Illuga would not even be able to escape him in the afterlife.

Perhaps, in time, if the boy would wish it. A selfishness Flins will not attempt to dissuade even as he knows better. A damning that will carry on to whatever life the two of them would have next.

Illuga blinks up at him, his grip tight around Flins' fingers. A brand against Flins' skin. "You're my partner in crime Sir Flins."

"Oh?" he starts, a pleased intone that carries through him, shadows at his feet tendriling with a desire to reach and consume as they walk. The allowance of his being to studied when Flins has warded off all others. "I thought you found me lacking the last time I brought up such a thing?"

He feels not unlike a plant deprived of light aside from the briefest of glimpses, straining despite the pain to push against the constraints of his container, spindly roots and body reaching out, colliding with the glass that separates it from the sun.

How terrible that if given the chance Flins thinks he might become the hound that devours the sun itself, an endless chase in the sky, exhilaration in his breast at the hunt, a burn in his throat when it undoubtedly welcomes him, embraces him, lets itself fit in the grooves of his teeth and trusts him not to bite.

"You're not far away now." Illuga says their hands swinging as Flins keeps his steps slow and easy to keep pace with the boy. "That was the only thing that would have made it difficult, but now it seems like anytime I want to see you, you're there the next day."

There's a desire to preen. Instead Flins allows a smile to grace his features, full of teeth as he laughs. "Is that so? How fortunate you find me fitting in all other things young master. I would be loathe to fall short of your expectations."

Flins doesn't think he can fit neatly in the boxes of what these human's of his see as good or bad, but he's always been a fair hand at conforming just enough to fit. It's a little easier to fall into their skin as of late. He's no less greedy nor any more virtuous, but over the years he's come to an understanding of what needs to be if he wishes to engage with humans in a substantial way, to be normal enough for them, beneficial. To live a life that allows his indulgence of their company.

"Your flattery," Illuga hums out, mouth quirking. "or, well, my old man calls it your slick tongue but he says I'm not supposed to say such things."

Ah, yes. Flins can imagine his old friend damning his slick tongue or fine-tipped flattery often enough in the privacy of his home, and even to his face on occasion. A thing of comraderies Flins thinks, laughter in his mouth when he thinks of Nkita's tendency to point out his jests. One of the few people that call him out on it. a joyful thing that Illuga follows in his footsteps.

"My have I not waxed enough about my perception of you young master?" Flins asks an opportunity presenting itself, sticky-sweet words piling in the back of his throat. "How disappointed in me you must be. Taking such time to indulge me as company when there are certainly a number of individuals eager to see you cresting over their doorsteps. How attentive you are to all my stories—I really can't ask for a better listener. Or, even, my young master," Flins continues teeth shining under the light of day he takes part in all to enjoy a part of Illuga's world. "How gracious you are to take my hand and ensure I am not led astray—"

"Sir Flins!" It's followed by a huff as Illuga stops in front of him, hand tugging at Flins own in a request that he chooses to indulge in the barest of sense, a loosening of his hand only to curl his fingers around the tips of Illuga's own.

Illuga looks up at him not unlike several of the sergeants Flins has interacted with in their ranks. Chin raised and gaze far too steeled for one so young, a disapproving tilt to his mouth. Not at all the child he should be, instead haunted by the stories he reads of perished warriors and men, shoes he seeks to fill with a mind of changing an ending that meets them all.

The things Flins will do to ensure he gets the denouement he so wishes for.

"Don't try and twist things as if I'm doing them as a kindness for you." Even so small Illuga has a bite to him, the ability to tear all of Flins teasing to taters with the study of him, the attention he pays that Flins stokes every chance he can; a treat he can't help but indulge in when everyone else falls so easily for his games and played upon sadness. He dislikes nosiness and questions, and yet even without them Illuga sees through him. Terribly aware for a boy. It'll only grow worse as Illuga grows, he thinks. "I do it because I want to. I want to hear your stories even when you string me along, and I like getting to see you because it means I can make sure you're being careful. It's all a selfish interest even if you don't think so."

Seeing him well and wishing to hear his stories. Terribly selfish. Flins could laugh but he fears Illuga might kick him in the shin.

"Then," Flins says warmth billowing in his chest, threatening to scorch him into nothing but a floating ball of fire. "How about this instead—I'm rather grateful you find me…interesting enough to feel selfish." To keep seeking him out.

There are quite a few other things he could have substituted to say, but for Illuga to engage with him as he does with his dear humans, familiar and caring and attention granting, that is his dearest wish for this masquerade. To be considered important. Loved in the way only humans can, tempered and poised with a blade against his chest to stab him through with their proffered offerings.

Flins thinks if anyone knew of the arrangement he's found himself in after a brief bit of idle punishment for a friend they may stab him. If only because this boy has most of Piramida wrapped around his finger unknowingly.

"You're important to me." Illuga mumbles, and though it's unsaid, as all things are for this child and those he cares about, Flins feels his chest flicker in a mockery of a heartbeat at this, just this, all the same.

"I endeavor to remain so." Flins tells him and gives a soft squeeze to his fingers. "For now, however, I have the role of an escort to fulfill for the day."

Illuga's smile is bright when he looks up at Flins once more, an eager thing that Flins can only archive in his mind for the inevitable straining to it that comes for all Lightkeepers.

Nikita wishes him to live well, to see him happy and healthy, and yet they all know; in the end Illuga will become an offering on a platter like them all against the abyss. May his youth last an eternity alongside the dream in his heart to see it end and a spear at his command so long as Flins walks this earth.

Even after if this child would so wish it of him. A guardian of his grave, hell-beast allowed to prowl.

It is the very thing that leads to the numerous indulgences Flins crafts for Illuga to enjoy.

The boat they take is no different from the standard trip full of squads of Lightkeepers to either swap posts with those on the other islands, or simply to pass along messages and information through specific channels. It keeps illuga engaged as he chatters to just about everyone about things to look forward to, ("Auntie Nasya told me the other day she's been preparing to make bread for everyone soon to celebrate some of the recent endeavors around Nod-Krai.") or pins some of the individuals Flins knows are a bit more stubborn than most with a look Flins' is certain he picked up from Nikita ("If you're so reckless again the nurses on staff in the infirmary said they're gonna start tying down the worst offenders to ensure they get proper breaks.")

Things that surround him with people for the long ride to the main island of Nod-Krai as Flins takes a backseat and simply lets him be. A steady presence at his side when Illuga slips a small hand in his, to ensure you don't try and pop up behind me to scare me like my old man says you do to others on occasion he crows with a fondness that Flins wants to pluck free from his throat and seal away so no other may experience it.

He doesn't dare be so selfish in that regard—in depriving Illuga from his care and affection for people—but he feels the urge burn in the back of his mind, itching like a scab.

As much as his nature may wish it there is no hiding the dawn, no anchoring it away, shrouding it for more than a few hours.

Flins can only haunt him, a starving hound at his heels praying upon his kindness, shrouding him within the shadow of his embrace hours at a time.

Time passes as they drift along the water until dirt squelches under their heels and Flins has to tuck Illuga's scarf tighter around his neck as the temperature shifts, the wind whipping at their cheeks.

There is no surprise in him when Flins ends up with Illuga's bag bundled in his arms as he follows after the boy when they come upon the shoal in their aimless walking. It started as a slow curl around the coastline of the isle, a path that allows them ample view of the frostfin whales as they leap out of the water and engage in races among their pods.

Illuga had raced them while on the shore, a brightness to his eyes as he took in their lowing and the eager way they crowded as close to the shore as the water's depths would allow. A true, childish, pursuit.

This boy, so young, has imposed a kind of seriousness upon his character while surrounded by the people of Piramida. A stalwart desire to take any burdens they may carry unto his own shoulders even as the weight threatens to crush him. An earnest thing, Flins understands, yet so utterly foolish.

It is not a boy's job to take upon the pain of the adults around him into his breast, to let it taint his heart and body when there is so much time left for him to enjoy.

This is a kindness Flins can allow, can cultivate, a fleeting reprieve from Illuga's own worries.

It is a languidness that fills him as Flins follows Illuga around the island and lets him roam as he sees fit. The shoal welcomes him like an old friend when they reach it, waves lapping at the shore in lazy strokes as Illuga's breath puffs out in a cloud as he looks out, a murmur working free of him: "Sir Flins, everyone always tells me they like to look at certain points on their patrols—over a hill down on the town, out across the ocean, or up at the sky. Things that remind them of why they work so hard." When he looks up at Flins this time it's with an open curiosity, a quiet question. "No one has even been able to tell me what you look at, or if you look at anything at all."

What a funny thing to seek from him.

For a moment Flins thinks best how deal with this particular topic. He does so often when it comes to Illuga, he finds. An earnest internal discussion on how he wishes to broach things.

Readjusting his hold on Illuga's things he bends down, water licking at the tips of his fingers as he pries a little stone free from the depths of the sand. A perfect round hole in the center of it.

"The little things," he muses, which isn't untrue. Coins, gems, antiques, all small in stature if not history. Humans in their life spans. He raises the pebble up to his eye, a smile gracing his lips. Moments in time he wishes he could ask to keep. "Even something like this is enough for me. You can see plenty to capture through it."

Illuga is quiet for a moment and then Flins hears the shuffle of wet sand around his shoes, the knock of water against skin, sand shifting. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Illuga holding his own pebble up to his eye, peering through the perfect hole. "Sir Flins," he starts a seriousness to it that makes Flins' chest hurt with fondness. "I think most people would think you're playing a joke on them."

"Perhaps," he murmurs looking away from the wash of colors that paint the sky to instead peer at Illuga through his stone. "But I think at this time, young master, I only care if you think the joke is on you."

Illuga hums out his disagreement a lilting bit of noise.

"There are stories about stones like this." It tumbles out of him unbidden, a truth of his world even if so many have fallen out of the belief of it. Illuga peers up at him curious, always eager for stories and knowledge, a black-hole in a boy that drank too much sunlight. "Adder stones. People in the past used to turn them into charms, especially for children. They warded off the fae that sought to steal them away from their families. Others claim that if you looked through them you might be able to glance into the ethereal, see what's hidden."

The pebbles out so far have lost much of their power, but their stories still continue altered with time. If he blessed one of them with his own power there's a possibility it would reveal something to Illuga, would showcase his less than welcoming features, the specter that haunts after him.

"What about regular protection?" Illuga asks looking at him through the stone and though Flins knows he can see nothing there is still an urge to shrink away. "Did it only protect kids or could they be used by anyone?"

"Anyone could make use of them." Then, unable to resist the urge to tease. "You have quite the serious tone there. Someone in mind you want to protect young master?"

Anything else that wishes to bubble free from his throat grows blocked as Flins watches, stuck, as Illuga eases closer to him to work at the belt of his coat loosening it just enough to thread the band of it through the stone before fixing it back in place. "Everyone," Illuga tells him, steady and sincere, but his smile makes his cheeks bunch, pleased with his work as Flins feels a furnace in his belly, scorching its way through his body. "But I can keep an eye on everyone else pretty easily. You're someone I worry about more than anyone else, so if this really is a charm for protection I'm going to make sure you keep it on you."

Flins swallows, a lump in his throat, smoke billowing from his chest. It burns as he forces it back down, a searing from the inside out he's unused to despite being made of heat. An explosion in the making, an eruption on the cusp.

Slowly, carefully he eases a hand down to smooth over the rounded edge of the stone he can feel like a hot iron through his clothes. "Since it's from you," he starts, a deal on his tongue, a one-sided devotion. "I shall take great care of it."

"I'll hold you to it." Illuga says laughter in his throat, and for a moment Flins can only wonder how many times he will break this expectation of his to stay safe.

It takes far more to kill him than any of his comrades. It really is a selfish thing that as Flins will look out for this human of his, any and all efforts he know will come from Illuga as he grows will be fruitless even as Flins enjoys the bounty of his labors.

He thinks, in that moment as he continue to trail after Illuga as something new has caught his attention, that he may, in fact, be a bad man in the eyes of his colleagues.

Perhaps it should bother him more, this instance of realization, but it is his single folly in his efforts to engage with them. Surely, with their care and love, they can forgive him in this.

Slowly as they continue their curling path along the outsides of the island the weather begins to shift in earnest as they make it to the docks outside Nasha Town. The wind is whipping, the near-yearly present swath of snow that decorates Hiisi Island brought along to its neighboring land, dusting the floor and their clothes, a warning for the storm to come.

Illuga watches the workers with an open concern as Flins starts to herd him into town. "They know the signs of a blizzard don't they Sir Flins? Shouldn't we tell them in case? Or offer to escort them somewhere safe?"

He shakes his head. "They know." There are bunkers in numerous spots around the docks, and homes that open to strangers in events like this. There is always loss, someone not listening to their peers, or pressing to finish a bit more work they think they can get done in time before everything starts to white out. "There are Lightkeepers stationed around to lead them to safety. They're in good hands young master Illuga, just as I intend to be for you. Now hurry."

He can only remember a handful of times that he ended up in a public space during an oncoming blizzard. Not always pleasant in the past, but The Flagship is as good of a refuge as any. Plenty of food and drink for guests and those seeking a warm place to hunkers down to enjoy, an atmosphere that lends itself to lessening worries. Music and companions to speak with, a friendly staff.

Certainly, there are far worse places to end up.

That, and the moment Illuga spots Lightkeepers he recognizes, whole and hale, coming off duty with a meal at the bar his shoulders ease.

It is an easy thing then to send him off on his way to welcoming arms and smiles, boisterous laughter on how you've finally slipped free from the old man for a bit of fun, eh? that makes Flins' mouth quirk.

It's a complicated relationship here. A respect for Nikita, regardless of things, but work and responsibility is a heavy burden when so many haven't see the family they have in headquarters. It isn't the same as seeing their flesh and blood, but for a boy that has been adopted by the cohort Flins thinks it serves the adults here just as well to see someone they're fond of, someone they can jest with about how they miss home and then, miraculously, find they'll be given leave for just a while to return home, to family.

Flins knows his old friend. He loves Illuga enough to fold like a wet tissue if Illuga makes a well-meaning comment about someone missing home.

Perhaps a bit of trickery, but really, who is it hurting in this instance?

Against the edge of the bar Flins finds himself content to watch over his charge for the evening as the weather rattles against the hinges of the homes outside, wind whistling sharp in his ears through the metal and wood of the buildings, temperature dropping even as the inside of the Flagship continues to burn hot.

Illuga doesn't go far, not really. There are nervous glances over his shoulder that Flins waves away with a hand and a little smile to keep him with his cohorts, a creature in need of socialization unlike himself.

The Flagship becomes a hive of noise and bodies, the smell of ale and juice blending in his nose as people are shuffled inside as careful as they can before the door latches shut once more. A thing of revelry all around despite the wearisome turn outside its doors.

Honestly, Flins finds himself surprised at just how long it takes for someone to commandeer the jukebox and turn the volume up to take drinking from being the main form of entertainment to a secondary source as people and staff around the bar maneuver furniture to clear a section of the floor to partake in dancing for the amusement of everyone around.

Different, certainly, from the waltz, quadrille, lancer, or mazurka he is used to partaking in during his youth, but a joyful thing to witness all the same. There are elements of the old ballroom dances he recognizes in the movement of the people around him, but they've evolved, changed in a form Flins would have to take the time to study to fully keep up with.

Even Illuga with uneven stance and a grin that feels like a hard-won indulgence of his youth takes part when someone tugs at his arm and drags him into the circle. His cheeks are flushed by the end, pink with joy and laughter when he's released to settle in a chair next to Flins. His hair, even, is mussed from someone ruffling it at some point.

"You don't want to join Sir Flins?" it's a breathy question, his heart thudding in Flins' ears as loud as a bullet.

"Are you asking for a spot on my dance card young master Illuga?" A murmur as Flins shifts to prop his chin on his hand, mouth curling with the fonder smile that fits itself on his features.

Illuga blinks up at him head tilted not unlike a puppy. "Your dance card?"

"Ah," he says, "apologies young master my age is showing." pointedly ignores the way Illuga squints at him in scrutiny. "A dance card was used to keep track of one's partners at a ball or social program."

Illuga's mouth quirks, shifting in his seat a little closer. "Do you expect to get asked for a lot of dances Sir Flins?"

"It wasn't an uncommon thing for me to be asked my young master. Though, now, I find myself far more picky with who I accept. At the time if one wanted to deny a dance they could say their card was full."

"Would you dance with me if asked you Sir Flins?" As if Flins would be able to deny him anything like this.

"Is that what you would wish of me?"

At some point as Flins leaned forward his hair has spilled over his shoulder a waterfall of color. Something warms in his chest when Illuga reaches for a few strands to wind between his fingers as he thinks.

"What," there's a new nervousness to him, a worry as he bites at his lip. "what if I wanted a second one with you?"

a laugh startles out of him, low and amused, an opportunity to play. "You know, young master, that is a privilege only one's betrothed is said to have."

Illuga's nose scrunches, an honest pout forming on his face before he works it away with a shift of his head, a tuck of his chin. A childish mumble. "So you wouldn't? Even if that was something only in the past?"

"Well," Flins says, a terrible urge welling in him that he soothes with roaring heat and acrid burning to ashes, and takes Illuga's hand in his, hair falling free from the gaps of his fingers to instead brush at his skin threatening to scorch. Attempts a jest even as the weight of it rings true. "I would hope that you would be content with tying us together. That's a rather large responsibility is it not young master? You must take care not to agree to things without thinking of the consequences."

"But it's you," Flins has to close his eyes, lets the declaration roll through him instead of latching onto it as his nature demands. Ah, how dreadful the things this boy dangles before him with no understanding. "Can't there be an exception if it's you? We're partners in crime already Sir Flins, isn't that already a large responsibility?"

His huff is an amused thing as he opens his eyes once more. "Then, my young master Illuga, I ask you again—is that what you would wish of me?"

There is really only so much of himself that Flins can deny. He has already made one deal, what is cementing it even further? What harm does this really bring when Flins will bring no harm to him?

'Tis only a bit of childish indulgence for a boy that allows himself so little.

"Yes," Illuga tells him, a fierce kind of excitement to it as he squeezes Flins hand even as Flins feels something settle low and satiated in the core of his body, a voracious ferity developing at the unwitting promise. He's a terrible man if he must live by human understanding; a successful deal maker to the fair folk; an unrepentant hound at his master's feet, full of love in the way only an animal can. "We can dance as much as I want now can't we?"

He wonders, only for a moment, if death will truly be enough to keep him from this boy, now.

"If that is what you wish then it shall be done my young master." He slides from his chair, hold gentle on Illuga's hand as he bows just enough to press a kiss to the back of it as a true gentleman would. "Now, shall we?"