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It happens far too quickly for Flins to comprehend.
One moment he is lunging at Dottore, polearm raised and crackling with electricity. The next, there’s a sharp tugging at his chest, like a giant, invisible hand pulling his body. He is yanked forward, then thrown so hard to the ground that he feels a sharp pain shoot up his spine. It’s not so bad that he cannot stand, though, and he staggers to his feet, reaching for his lantern— only, there’s nothing at his waist.
Panic tightens Flins’ stomach when he sees his lantern in Dottore’s hand. The Harbinger is tilting it back in forth with a lazy curiosity. “So,” he says. “That’s what this is.”
The Traveler glances sharply at him, but Flins is already grabbing his polearm and preparing another strike. He must get his lantern back. He cannot let—
“I suspected you might be trouble. Luckily, I came prepared for this.” Dottore produces a length of chain in his hand, and Flins feels his throat close up with a terror he has not felt in centuries. Power sparks at the tip of his spear as he lunges, desperately, before it’s too late.
He does not even make it halfway when Dottore wraps the chain once, twice, three times around his lantern and tosses it to the side.
Immediately, pain explodes in Flins’ chest, right where his heart would be if he had one. He screams, collapsing to his knees as the pain spreads like wildfire, digging jagged claws into his core, burrowing into every muscle and bone of this body he has shaped for himself. It’s agonizing. He does not need to breathe, but now he feels what it must be like to drown: no matter what he does, he cannot claw past the pain, cannot escape it as it drags him down. His vision blurs; his head spins and throbs. The pain sears against his skin. It’s eating him from the inside out and he— he—
Someone is screaming his name. Through the black spots dancing in his vision, he sees the Doctor’s boots stop right before him. “As I suspected.” There comes the sound of chains jingling, and Flins bites back another scream as the pain flares brighter. “Cold iron— although I suppose you already knew that.”
He wants to say something in return, but he can barely think past the excruciating pain. His vision blacks out, and when it returns the world has tilted sideways. The Doctor is already levitating away, his attention back on the others. Flins’ lantern lies useless and bound beneath his feet.
The agony is all-consuming. He needs to get up— he must get up, he needs to help them fight— but when he tries to move, the pain tenfolds. Someone screams, a sound that cracks into a sob. He thinks it might be him. He does not know anymore— he cannot know anything beyond the pain, like fire tearing his very being apart. His vision blacks out again, and this time he knows nothing more.
---
“Fuck, Archons, what—”
“Dottore, he did something. I don’t know—”
“Step aside, please! Let me see him.”
“Honorary Knight, what the hell happened in there?”
“I told you, Dottore, he—”
There is someone crying, multiple voices yelling. Someone, too, is gasping as if for air, each sound sharp and cracked with pain. Beyond the darkness, the daze, he thinks it might be him.
He doesn’t know. He’s so, so cold.
Warmth cradles his head, dispersing some of the chill. Someone is talking to him in a low, familiar voice. They sound panicked, frantic. “Hey, hey, sweetheart, it’s okay. You’re okay, you’re safe. Breathe for me.”
Breathe? But he—
Another wave of pain crashes down on him, hard. This time he feels the scream claw at his throat, escaping as a strangled, choked sound.
The voice swears and starts to yell, but he’s already being dragged back under. The darkness encloses him once again.
---
Varka doesn’t think he’s felt so damn helpless in his entire life.
He’s had moments. There have been times when the expeditionary force has been ambushed, times when the problem before him seems too twisted to even begin to figure out, times when the people around him are upset and he just can’t find the right words. But this—
Flins is curled in his lap, shivering despite the blankets and Varka’s coat that have been draped over him. The thing is that he’s uninjured. No sign of wounds, bruises, broken bones, or anything. Even after defeating the Doctor, he looks unscathed— a far cry from Nefer’s limp, Traveler’s many bruises, and Lauma’s visible exhaustion. But just minutes ago, when Varka arrived at the Flagship right on the heels of the ones who’d fought Dottore, Flins was immobilized in the bed, letting out strangled half-sobs, half-gasps of pain, his whole body trembling and shivering. Varka has never, ever seen him like that before.
He’d rushed to Flins’ side, demanded to know what the hell could have possibly happened. Traveler said something about Dottore and Flins’ lantern, and then Lauma was pushing past everyone to try and use her healing abilities. Maybe it worked, because he’d stopped making those anguished, heart-wrenching noises— or maybe that was just because he’d finally fully lost consciousness. Neither answer helps a damn bit, because Varka can tell he’s in pain still. And cold, too, with the way he keeps shivering. Which makes Varka more than a little bit afraid, because Flins shouldn’t be able to get cold.
It’s the lantern. It has to be.
“Where is it?” he asks, for what feels like the tenth time.
Nefer shakes her head. “He separated us in there. After Flins collapsed, we each got sent to a different place, like separate pockets of space in that domain. In the fray…” Nefer spreads her hands. She looks as frustrated as Varka has ever seen her. “I don’t know. Traveler, did you see it?”
“It must still be in there,” the Traveler says. “I’m going to go back and try to find it. I think I can locate the space again. But I don’t remember either. Everything happened so fast…” They shoot an apologetic glance at Varka, their expression tight with guilt.
Varka runs his fingers gently through Flins’ hair, and Flins shivers harder. Even in his sleep, a soft sound slips from him, something quiet and broken. It makes Varka’s stomach tighten. He fucking hates this, hates seeing Flins like this with no idea how to help. There’s no injuries to heal, nothing visible to deal with. It has to do with the lantern, somehow, but until they have it, none of them will have a damn clue what to do.
He just— he wants to punch the wall, wants to punch something. He’s a leader, a protector. Varka’s dedicated his whole life to helping people, and now that one of the most important people he’s ever known is in his arms, shivering, in agony, Varka doesn’t have a damn clue as to how to even remotely alleviate his suffering, let alone get to the root of it. He’s completely helpless and he fucking hates it. The frustration sits heavy in his stomach, making it near impossible to focus on anything else.
The Traveler starts towards the door. “I’m going to head back and find it. It has to be in there still.”
“Let me come with you,” says Nefer, following. “In case that place is still hiding some secrets.”
The two leave. Columbina and Arlecchino have gone, too, with Sandrone’s body. Only Lauma is left. She’s at the table next to Varka’s bed, making some sort of herbal brew— they’d moved from a spare room to Varka’s own room at the Flagship. He watches her, feeling his exhaustion finally starting to kick in.
He doubts he could get a single wink tonight, though. Not with Flins in this condition.
Lauma sets down the concoction she’d been making. “Here,” she says gently. “I… don’t know if it will help at all, but hopefully it can take the edge off some of the pain. Give it to him when he wakes up.”
“Thank you, Miss Lauma,” Varka croaks. “It means a lot. Truly.”
She smiles, sad and exhausted. Her eyes drift to Flins and her smile falls. “That wicked doctor… I’m not sure what he did, but it cannot be good. If the brew does not help, please tell me. I’ll come back right away.”
“You’re too kind, Miss Lauma.” Varka manages a smile for her. “You should get some rest first. You fought Dottore and you healed everyone. You deserve some sleep.”
When Lauma leaves, Varka gently lays Flins down on the bed, tucking his own coat over him, as well as the multiple blankets. Flins’ hair spills across the pillow; even in his sleep, his expression is tight with pain. He shivers beneath the mound of blankets. Varka finds another blanket and adds it to the pile, but it doesn’t seem to help.
Swallowing, Varka adjusts the blankets instead, tucking them tighter around Flins. He hadn’t realized until now how terrifying it is to watch over someone who does not breathe and has no heart. Normally, Flins’ flame burning bright in his lantern is all Varka needs to know that he’s alright, but without the lantern—
Varka sits next to Flins, watching him shiver. It’s the only sign that he’s alive at all, and Varka stares hard, so hard his vision starts to blur. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to wipe that first sight of Flins from his mind.
He’s not sure how long it’s been when Flins moves ever so slightly beneath the blankets. Varka rests a gentle palm over his cheek as Flins’ eyes slowly, slowly open.
“Varka?” Flins whispers. His voice is hoarse, and so soft Varka has to strain to hear it.
“Yeah,” Varka replies, just as quietly. Stupidly, his eyes sting with tears. He wipes them away— he’s not the one who’s in excruciating pain and freezing cold. Still, still, the relief that sweeps through him at the sight of Flins awake is enough to make him want to sob. He cradles Flins’ face, rubbing a thumb gently over his cheekbone. “How are you feeling?”
Flins tries to move— attempting to sit up, as far as Varka can tell. Before Varka can tell him to stop, Flins is collapsing back against the bed, muffling a soft cry of pain into the pillow. Varka’s heart seizes and he leans over, his hands hovering uselessly. “Flins? What’s wrong?”
“I— I can’t—” Flins squeezes his eyes shut, his throat bobbing around another strangled whimper. Desperately, Varka finds his hand under the blankets and squeezes. Flins squeezes back, just barely, his grip terrifyingly weak.
“Kyryll, love, you’re scaring me,” Varka whispers. “What’s wrong? What can I do?”
A shuddering exhale leaves him. Flins curls up tighter beneath the blankets. His voice comes out in a frail whisper: “My— my lantern.”
Varka swallows. Shit. “Yeah, I know. The Traveler is looking for it right now. Here—” Varka reaches for Lauma’s brew.
Flins opens his eyes again. It takes visible effort for him to try and speak, and Varka almost wants to hush him, tell him to rest and conserve his energy. But if Flins has an answer, if he knows what’s wrong, then Varka can start to figure out how to help him.
“The Doctor,” Flins says at last. A violent shiver wracks his whole frame beneath the blankets. “He… he bound my lantern. With iron.”
“Iron?” Varka stiffens. His folktale knowledge is a little rusty, but he remembers reading something about iron and the fae, once. What was it? Why now, of all times, is he drawing a blank?
Flins’ voice cracks, still speaking, and Varka snaps his attention back. “Iron— iron hurts us. Weakens and— and restricts. Makes it hard to move.” He meets Varka’s gaze, his eyes dazed with pain. In a low, broken whisper, he croaks, “Varka, I’m so c-cold.”
Varka’s chest tightens. “I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, and his voice cracks. He’s rambling, but he doesn’t know what else to say— doesn’t know what else to do. He reaches for Flins, gently and carefully shifting him so he’s propped against Varka’s chest, still wrapped securely in the blankets. Flins shivers, clinging to him, his fingers deathly cold against Varka’s arm.
“Is that why you’re like this?” Varka asks, combing his fingers through Flins’ hair. Flins nods, just barely, his head falling against Varka’s shoulder. Exhaling, Varka continues, “And you’ll be like this until the iron is removed? From your lantern? Is that it?”
Another nod.
Jaw clenched, Varka glares at his greatsword, propped up by the door. Oh, how he wishes he could’ve gotten to punch the hell out of that bastard. He’s had plenty of reasons to do so, but this is just the icing on the cake.
Flins makes another low, wounded sound, and Varka jolts back into focus. He takes the bowl with one hand and gently tips Flins’ chin up with the other. “Here, love, see if this helps with the pain.”
“It won’t,” Flins rasps. “Nothing helps except— except removing the iron.”
Varka swallows, his chest tight. “Don’t say that. If there’s any way to ease the symptoms until we get your lantern back, I’ll find it. Try the brew— maybe it’ll help just a little?”
Flins shakes his head, slowly. His gaze is unfocused, and his eyelids are starting to droop again. “I just want… sleep. It— it hurts less when I’m sleeping.”
Maybe Varka should insist on the brew, but the pain in Flins’ voice cracks his resolve. “Okay. You can sleep, sweetheart. Here,” he murmurs as he moves to settle Flins back against the pillows, but Flins clings to him.
“No, please… you’re warm.”
He sounds desperate, and Varka wonders just how unbearable the chill must be for a fae who never feels cold. It makes him want to cry, but he swallows back his tears and presses a kiss to Flins’ forehead. “Well, lucky for you, I’m not going anywhere.”
Flins is quick to fall back asleep again, his expression still tight with pain. Varka holds him, too afraid to let go.
---
The second time Flins wakes, the pain is more familiar. It makes it no easier to bear, but he manages to swallow back a gasp as his eyes slowly open. His vision is blurry, but he sees the same familiar, mismatched furniture of Varka’s room in the Flagship. With the haze of pain still fogging his mind, it takes him a moment to register that he’s lying down now, his head resting on Varka’s chest, Varka’s arms still wrapped tightly around him. His body heat does little to stave off the cold, but it feels better to be tucked in Varka’s embrace than lying alone on the mattress.
Flins shivers, trying to burrow closer, and immediately Varka’s hand is on the back of his head. He could cry at the warmth, and it yet it is still not enough. He’s so cold.
“Hey,” Varka whispers. “You’re awake. Is it any better?”
No, and Flins knows it cannot be better until his lantern is freed. The wait is nearly as agonizing as the pain itself. He feels as if it is sinking teeth into his core, tearing him apart with slow, excruciating precision. And though he has just slept, exhaustion weighs on him like the moon itself is resting upon his shoulders. An effect of the iron, it must be— sapping his strength, his powers. It hurts more than anything he has ever felt and he turns his face into Varka’s chest, strangling a cry in his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Varka whispers, like it’s his fault, and he sounds like he might cry, too. His hand begins to stroke Flins’ hair in slow, gentle motions. “The Traveler should be back soon. Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?”
Flins shakes his head just as another sharp burst of pain hits. It seems to double down sometimes, randomly, and this time he cannot bite back his gasp. The agony blazes through him, making his entire body seize up. His gasp cracks into a sob.
“Kyryll?” Varka’s voice is tight with panic. His body shifts, like he’s trying to sit upright.
“I–” Flins can barely even get the words out as the pain lodges in his throat. He swallows, even though it hurts, and tries again. “J-just a tremor. I will manage.”
Varka says nothing, but his grip tightens. Flins hears him release a shuddering breath as his hand begins to comb through Flins’ hair once more. It’s a small comfort, but one that Flins desperately clings to. Anything to distract him from the pain.
All of a sudden he hears footsteps, echoing through the metal halls of the Flagship. Varka breathes, “Oh, thank Barbatos. That must be them.”
Flins shivers. “Help me sit up, please.”
Moving is excruciating, but Flins tries not to let it show as Varka helps him sit. He must not have been successful, because Varka’s expression is pinched with concern. But he says nothing, just wraps his coat tightly around Flins’ shoulders before he tucks his arm around him and holds him close, still trying to share his warmth. Pressed securely against Varka’s side like that, it’s a bit easier to focus on the solidity and familiarity of Varka next to him, instead of the pain.
The door bursts open, and the Traveler enters, holding Flins’ lantern— still bound in chains, but intact. “Got it!” they declare triumphantly. “Flins, is there any specific way to deal with the chains?”
Flins shakes his head, swallowing back a cry of relief. “No. Simply unwrap them. It— it will hurt, but you must ignore me. Don’t stop until— until it’s all off.”
Varka glances at him, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean, it’ll hurt?”
“Iron,” Flins says, too exhausted to explain beyond that. Later he will tell Varka in more detail, but now he simply braces himself. He shakily reaches for Varka’s hand, and Varka gently threads their fingers together, squeezing. His arm tightens around Flins.
“Alright,” says the Traveler, voice flat and serious. “I’ll do it as fast as I can, but these chains are wrapped tight.”
“Go on,” Flins whispers. He closes his eyes.
At the first rasp of metal, the pain hits tenfold. Flins doubles over with a strangled scream, squeezing Varka’s hand like a lifeline. The agony is blinding— it tears through him, ripping into his very core, squeezing until he feels like he might pass out. His head swims, his throat tingling with nausea. Through the sound of his own labored breathing and choked gasps, he hears Varka swear softly. Flins clings to him, trying to anchor himself before the pain sweeps him under.
But it only intensifies, and he falls sideways, against Varka’s chest. He has no lungs to speak of but it feels like he’s drowning, clawing for air. With the pain comes the cold, a chill that sinks deep into his being. He can’t stop shaking. He can’t stop sobbing, either. Dimly, he registers Varka holding him tight, whispering something, voice shaky and desparate. A hand cradles his cheek, warming the skin there, just barely. Flins tries to cling to that point of contact, that spot of heat, before he can pass out.
Then, suddenly, it stops. The pain vanishes like it was never there, and all the tension drains from Flins’ body. He collapses even further against Varka, shaking, gasping for air he doesn’t need. He hears Traveler exhale, hears Varka swear softly again before whispering, hesitantly, “Is it done?”
“It should be,” says the Traveler.
Flins musters the energy to nod. “It’s done,” he rasps. The relief is staggering, as is the exhaustion. He tries to pry his eyelids open, only for them to fall again.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Varka murmurs. Flins feels a kiss being pressed to his forehead. “It’s done. You can rest, Kyryll.”
“You should both rest,” Traveler says. Their voice sounds a bit as if Flins is hearing it through water. He thinks they say something else, but he doesn’t catch it. Everything fades back to black.
---
It takes a few days for Flins to feel normal again. He has never experienced iron before this, and it sapped much more out of him than he would have expected. He spends much of his time sleeping in Varka’s room, trying to rid himself of that persistent exhaustion. But Varka is patient— barely ever leaving his side, only dipping out with reluctance when a matter with the Knights requires his attention. Illuga visits, too, nearly in tears with concern; it takes much placating to soothe his nerves and convince him that Flins is fine, he will make a full recovery.
When he finally feels well enough to return to the lighthouse, Varka insists on accompanying him. Flins teases him for being so chivalrous, but something inside him warms at Varka’s concern. It makes him feel so very loved, especially when Varka insists on giving Flins his jacket for the boat ride through the cold afternoon. Flins sits in the boat, snuggled in Varka’s jacket, and keeps his nose tucked into the fur lining, where the faint scent of Varka lingers the strongest.
He is a little surprised when Varka, after walking him up to the lighthouse, does not immediately leave. He hovers by the door long enough that Flins asks, “Varka, will you not be returning to Nasha Town?”
Varka gives him a lopsided grin. “Well, I was gonna ask if you’d have me for dinner. It’s been a while.”
“It has,” Flins agrees. He moves into the lighthouse, and Varka follows him, waving a hand when Flins makes to return his coat. Settling it back over his shoulders, resisting the urge to bury his nose back into it, Flins continues, “I simply thought you would want to return to your quarters. You have scarcely left my side these past few days.”
“You scared me,” Varka admits, his brows creasing. “I was just worried about you, love. You told me you don’t need to sleep, but that’s all you’ve been doing the past few days.” He steps closer, his gaze searching Flins’ face for any sign of pain or exhaustion. “But you said you’re okay now?”
“Iron,” Flins says, and tries not to wince at the word. Though he is alright now, he doubts the memory of that experience will leave him any time soon. “It has deleterious effects even after it has been removed. But rest assured, my dear sir knight, that I am fully recovered now.”
“Good.” Varka sweeps him into a hug, kissing his forehead. His arms are warm and Flins relaxes into his hold, letting his head fall against Varka’s shoulder. It strikes him, then— not for the first time, and certainly not the last— how very dearly he loves Varka.
“Let’s have dinner, then,” he murmurs into Varka’s neck. “I believe I still have some wine in my storage.”
Varka laughs. “Lead the way.”