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There's a recurring thought Kyryll has had, lately. When had he become so enamored with the idea of being human?
Perhaps it’s when he went to visit Seargeant Major Sousi. A flicker of flame, shadow bursting forth as Kyryll swept silently into the office. Sergeant Major Sousi had looked up as the fae materialized, bowing slightly in respect before straightening himself. “My good sir,” Kyryll had said pleasantly. “I have news to share with you, and I am afraid it is nothing good.”
“Pray tell, Sir Flins. What is it?”
“The Wild Hunt has changed and evolved to deal with the ratnik’s growing numbers,” Kyryll tells the man regretfully. “The monsters of the night have learned to shapeshift and take on the form of others.”
“My word.”
It sounds so obscene. Kyryll stands politely to the side as Sousi shakes his head, frame wracked with grief. If this were a few decades prior, it'd be obscene to himself. And yet instead in such a short span of his lifespan, he's started yearning for love and companionship.
It's been slow, subtle, creeping on him like the morning beckons. As the sun rays dissolve the morning mist, refracting and dispersing the light in the air, Kyryll finds himself wanting evermore to be mortal. Sousi, the man, the general, lowers his head into his hands as his fingers thread itself through coarse hair. Brittle and greasy from unrest, a lack of time to care. He looks haggard.
Kyryll frowns. “If I may be so bold, please, don’t join the fallen at the Final Night Cemetery.”
“Hah! As if. If I were buried, I’d like to be buried near Nasha Town… like I’m watching over the place, you know?” Sousi shakes his head. “My apologies for my appearance, sir Flins. First the emotional influence, and now this?”
Emotional influence? The fae’s curiosity gets the better of him, writing itself all over Kyryll’s face when Sousi blinks. Sousi looks confused, inspecting and squinting at Kyryll, before his eyes widen and a palm hits his forehead. “By Solovei’s torch, I forgot– you don’t know. Haha, you’re more wisened and experienced than I am combat wise, so I forget, it hasn’t even been a year yet.”
“Almost. What is it I do not know?”
Sousi bites his lip. “I assumed Squad Leader Illuga would tell you. It appears I was wrong, but tell me, you remember your own first major incident regarding your teammates, do you not?”
Kyryll, in fact, cannot recall it off the top of his head. “I believe I should. It’s…”
The fae pauses. What in the world is this man referring too?
Back with the Orioles, most of Kyryll’s memories are with Illuga. Standing behind him, asking to observe trainings, gently prodding Illuga’s posture into the correct place. Sitting with the team, eating the food Illuga makes, tending to Illuga’s wounds… tending to…
Oh.
“It’s when that odd ‘frenzy’ happened. The one that proved to young master that my capabilities were better utilized elsewhere.”
Sousi nods, and the man kicks open an old filing cabinet and pulls out a new document, sliding it towards the desk. Kyryll leans over, and observes the opportunity to learn placed before him.
‘Three years ago, the Massacre of Kipumaki Cliff happened. It’s dubbed as this not for the lives lost, though many were, but instead for the betrayal of mind that happened. The prolonged exposure to the Abyss drove soldiers mad, leaving only squad leader Illuga and healer Ivar. In fact…” Sousi frowns, as if contemplating whether or not to share this information with Kyryll. “Illuga shouldn’t have made it.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m sure you’ve seen a hint of that gash alongside Illuga’s neck, trailing downwards, right? One of the soldiers, he had slashed the youngun’s throat, cutting a major artery and breaking his collarbone. In fact, he had collapsed right before Piramida, running on what we assume was pure adrenaline to carry Ivar all the way back. We were all ready to mourn, to tell Nikita the bad news, but…”
He woke up, goes unsaid. Sousi shakes his head. “No matter. It’s a miracle he’s with us today.”
No, that’s not it. Perhaps it's when Kyryll took his time to walk amongst the dead. He's seen the revenants roaming the land, some of their forms flickering in and out, some nearly fully corporeal. Using time he did not have, Kyryll dragged his fingers along the engravings in the stone slabs, eyes carefully observing.
Names he had no living faces to put to.
Perhaps he is foolish, and no, he is foolish. It's foolish to want something like this, and yet, he does. He wants to know, he wants to learn, he wants to mourn as men do, and he wants to cry like humans do for those who have fallen.
That very night, after watching the ghosts glimmer and fade, the fae remembers that his feet led him to Piramida.
There were people who greeted him, calling out to ‘Sir Flins’. There were people who were crying together, there were men who had lost so much of their physical body but kept breathing and living.
He had recently reported the Wild Hunt's ‘development’, sure. He conversed with Sergeant Major Sousi. And yet, Kyryll wasn't quite known across the new recruits. They had all formed a bond and kinship, as one does when swearing a pact to fight for their lives, but Kyryll had been… for a lack of a better term, desperate to get to the front line.
He hadn’t formed any attachment or bond to these people, and yet they greeted him.
His feet had led him to the front of Illuga’s house in Piramida, tracing his fingers along every groove, pausing to read, to just absorb the hope in the air. Piramida is a lighthouse, perhaps not in a literal way, but instead a place where the air is filled with a myriad of grief, despair, hope, and love.
It’s no wonder that the young master embodies this place and breathes their ideals, Kyryll had thought. If he were mortal, would Illuga look his way and allow his heart to spill open? For Kyryll’s hands to nibble on his skin and breathe in the same air Illuga breathes? Tracing his fingers along the worn and weathered metal lightly, Kyryll absorbs his surroundings through touch, ignoring the slight hiss as the skin hidden by glove protests at the iron buildings.
“Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.”
The fae didn’t turn. He doesn’t have to, to know that the person who addressed him was Starshyna Nikita.
“Good evening to you, sir.” Kyryll had greeted. “What a lovely night it is, no?”
Turning, Kyryll resisted the urge to do a double take. The leader of the Lightkeepers had looked incredibly tired. His eyes were bloodshot, most likely from a lack of sleep or tears, and his face had been worn like he had aged fifty years in the few months Kyryll hadn’t seen him. Nikita’s mouth opens, and then closes.
“Do you not care that I know your true name?”
Along the side of the mailbox, ‘Illuga’ is carved into it. Kyryll feels his body scream as he presses a hand against it. “No. I have not given it to you of my own accord, so surely, you understand that you have no power over me.”
Nikita laughs, although it feels more hollow than anything. The man trudges over, boots heavy against the metal ground, and he sits down against the small message board, next to the stack of weathered and well loved cookbooks.
“All of us here, we truly do love Illuga.” Nikita says quietly. “You know that, right?”
Kyryll stays silent. Because of course he does. It’s visible in everybody’s respect for the man, the way they dote over him, and the way Illuga mistakes everyone’s worry and concern for pity, as a way of demeaning him. To make Illuga selfishly yearn for tomorrow, to cling on and use that beautiful, wonderful tenacity, that is what Kyryll desires.
Nikita scowls, and he hangs his head low. “I wasn’t the best father, Kyryll.”
“I believe Illuga turned out just fine.”
“No, it’s–” Nikita make a face of frustration. “He deserved so much more than what I could have given him. I raised him as a soldier, even without meaning to. I was so used to my own way of life, I couldn’t help him with any emotional issues. That was my folly. And now, he…”
The Starshyna gestures helplessly.
“When he dies… when you kill my son, could you please, please… make it painless?”
Kyryll had promised nothing.
In truth, there are many moments where he felt this sickening urge to be human more than anything, to defy his nature and become a flawed creature of love, to the point where he himself cannot pinpoint where this change took place. Ever since the beginning, he’s understood that he cared far too much for Illuga, and tried to delay his own downfall. He couldn’t possibly pick when his mentality had changed.
Was it when he had first encountered Illuga, his brilliance brighter than any gem he had been presented with during the reign of the Belyi Tsar?
Was it when he had become Flins the Ratnik, and found himself fighting for a cause?
Was it when he had begun actively enjoying others presence, finding himself sharing a drink with Varka and a story with anyone who stopped to listen?
Was it when he had formed a routine and settled in comfortably to a life that hadn't been handed to him on a platter, instead carving it himself into a corner of Paha Isle?
Was it when, in his dreams, he drifts away to a world where the Lightkeepers don't need to worry if they'll see tomorrow? In his dreams, where Illuga loves him softly and wholly in spite of his origins?
Because Illuga would, Kyryll dreams. Illuga would hold him with the same love, the same regard as he would anyone else.
Current-day Kyryll takes a heavy blow to his would-be ribcage, and he has grown so accustomed to breathing that it actually knocks the wind out of him. He staggers backward, eyes looking upwards in time to see a claw aiming for his lantern. Kyryll yanks it out of the way, choosing to turn heel and run, if only to make some distance.
The air is suffocating. Intense. To the point where Kyryll has to suppress a shudder, and force his mortal form to keep breathing. How long has he been here? Minutes? Hours? Days? He does not know.
He’s using time he does not have on the battlefield, and yet Kyryll can’t help but wonder what would happen if he were to let the abyss weigh on him. It chokes him, and before, the fae thought himself safe. The Abyss seeks to corrupt, to assimilate and destroy, and Kyryll believed there to be nothing there.
The weight on his chest seems to be proving him otherwise, Kyryll regards in dismay. It appears that he’s grown, say, fond of the people he’s protecting as Flins the Ratnik.
All of them, each and every single individual, has a burning hope within them. The world appears to be filled with a wonder that the fae had been oblivious too until now, reserving his attentions to the shiniest of gems and Illuga, but in truth, everything can glimmer given the right lighting and angles. Kyryll had been worried that this would dim his fixation on Illuga, but in truth, it only grew– for it was Illuga who introduced him to this beauty.
“You’re weakening, faery,” The Phantom hisses in glee, seeming to have deemed Kyryll’s respite unneeded over in favor of pummeling him into the ground. “Tell me– is it age catching up to you? Or is it what belongs to me, weakening you?”
Kyryll is cloaked by shadow, all clawing at him, desperate to reach his throat and rip his vocal chords out. Yet, Kyryll is no stranger to the dark, simply having embraced the light doesn’t change the fact that he is, undoubtedly, a monster.
Perhaps not as monstrous as this creature.
Darkness billows, as Kyryll raises his lantern, willing it to shine bright blue and have it’s light slice through the smog, and yet a hideous purple overtakes it’s form and obscures the azure flame. How hideous, Kyryll deems, frowning.
The monster won’t just let up, Kyryll knows of that. Like a dog with it’s teeth sunk deep into flesh, the only way to get the mutt to let it’s catch loose is to choke it, forcing your way through. Kyryll cannot be bothered right now to maintain his silver tongue, letting it fall into disrepair as he bares his teeth and moves to dodge, unable to attack. “You, who are superfluous… you, who are lonely…”
The Phantom is one of the many blots, the dirt obscuring the light. May it be known, that abominations are fated to perish. Around him, everything grows dense, as if gravity is pushing down on Kyryll in an attempt to make him submit to his fate. But Kyryll refuses, instead choosing to grin and bear it.
“The complacent invite in catastrophe…” The fae grits out through his teeth. “It’s too late to make up for your folly now.”
The audacity the Phantom has to approach him like this, hoping to break the lantern his soul has found refuge in and destroy what Kyryll holds dear. The audacity to believe the fae would ever let that happen. A solid hit sends Kyryll straight into solid rock, causing him to choke on nothing once more, and once more does Kyryll try to hit back and disperse of the night, only–
Exhaustion settles around him like a blanket, wrapping him in the feeling and causing his breath to hitch. There is a time, at certain aspects of the day, where the traditional would accept this exhaustion and fall to slumber. That is what this darkness, what the Abyss wants from him. It seeks to corrupt, to destroy, to devour Kyryll in it’s entirety as a reminder that he is not the only one who desires to feed.
More than once, Kyryll has wondered what would happen were he to succumb to the Abyss. Would his flame extinguish? Burn brighter, evermore? Join the Wild Hunt Exiles that he has seen, an enigmatic purple that he’s grown to detest so readily?
Perhaps, Illuga would truly love him if he were to fall on the battlefield, and mourn him the way he would mourn anyone else.
“Hand it over.”
The voice is deep, gravelly, and Kyryll looks upward to assess his opponent. He has scarcely seen the Phantom, but as of now, he seems much more humanoid than before. Rather than mist dispersing in the air, catching the rays of dawn as the light inevitably breaks through, he’s somewhat corporeal this time. That explains the increase in strength, Kyryll thinks to himself. He can actually hit back, this time. Tucking the lantern behind him somewhat, Kyryll finds himself standing once more before gravity presses down on him, attempting to force him to kneel.
Kyryll had not kneeled then, in times of court. He shall not kneel now. He strengthens his legs, stiffening and standing tall. The Phantom holds out his hand expectantly. “That, was mine from the first.”
Narrowing his eyes, the fae tucks the lantern closer to his chest. “It is hereby permanently requisitioned.”
All semblance of humanity leaves the Phantom, a guttural snarl ripping out of his throat as his claws tense, fangs showing as Kyryll’s foe reaches out to attack. “You are a fool.”
Kyryll does not move, as the Phantom intends to strike. He stands, ready to harden himself and face the night–
A sword intervenes. Kyryll doesn’t blink, doesn’t bother surprising, seeing that enigmatic Traveler enter his midst. The Traveler, with no other form of address to call her by, doesn’t seem to be in the proper attire for battle, and yet here she is, standing and beaming through the fog.
After meeting her initially, Kyryll had taken it upon himself to research, only to find very little. All recent news, within the past few months, of an enigmatic person beyond this world who has come to intervene. The many feats of one singular woman, able to accomplish what the gods cannot.
In a heretical land such as Nod-Krai, the fae can’t help but wonder what she plans to accomplish here. Does she naturally gravitate towards disaster? She swings her sword, sending the Phantom flying backwards as he hisses out a ‘you again’, and Kyryll watches as the Traveler tenses.
“He’s stronger than before?” She mutters out softly, not intending for anyone to hear it, turning to observe the field- landing on what Kyryll is holding. Hissing, the Traveler reaches out, voice commanding.
“Lantern!” She barks, outstretching her hand as if willing it to come to her grasp. “Now!”
It only takes half a second of deliberation for Kyryll to choose to trust, for a outlier who can fell false gods and dragons with a swing of her sword must have reason for requiring his lantern. He winds his arm up and throws, watching as she exchanges blows with the Phantom in a way he could not within his exhaustion. She’s trained, Kyryll dimly realizes, in a form of battle that is unnatural to this world.
Back then, the court of the Belyi Tsar had dabbled with such an abnormality, Kyryll dimly recalls. The Tsar had kept an exiled monk from another heretical land, one who did not accept a God in favor of innovation. What was his name, Rotwang?
Rotwang had come from Khaenri’ah, ruled by a king drawn to madness of the ‘pitch-black elysium’ that a young man had overseen. The Tsar had entertained the king of Khaenri’ah, perhaps once or twice, and returned with tales of a prince that would bring salvation unto the world. Back then, Kyryll thought it to be nonsense, and he was right to do so.
No salvation had been wrought, but Kyryll had the pleasure of watching a formal ‘duel’ between one of the knight commanders of the court and the Prince of Stars himself. He had been so unbelievably bored, but perhaps he should have paid more attention.
All at once, the fae remembers where he is, and blinks as he registers what’s going on in front of him. The Traveler is in the air, reaching for his lantern.
So is the Phantom.
Kyryll enters position to strike, launching himself forward and cloaking himself once more in flame, dispersing the shadows trying to climb him readily. The strikes lands squarely into the Phantom’s chest, and with wonder, Kyryll feels his flame grow stronger.
Purification.
That’s the only word to call it. While Kuuhvakhi and the Abyss clash endlessly, this feels as if a gentle water is splashed over him, cleansing him anew. But where does it go, if energy cannot be created nor destroyed?
Perhaps he misjudged, and the Traveler is no woman, nor a star, but a homunculus of sorts. A vessel of transmutation, or an endless vat to pour power into. As his lantern returns to his grasp, Kyryll burns brightly, and the rest of the shadows disperse once more.
The Abyss was removed from the heart settled within his core, and Kyryll hums. Where did it go, then? Certainly not within the Traveler, for he senses nothing. But he was done a favor, and as it goes, he must do something in equal return. His life was saved, and so Kyryll hears the star out on her cause.
Kyryll doesn’t… exactly care about the Moon Goddess returning, he won’t lie. Learning a name for the phantom, though, Rerir, leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. It wasn’t given to him by Rerir willingly, so the taste is dulled down, but even so it’s downright revolting. The sins weighed upon his soul was done willingly, with an acknowledgement of the actions that paved his path to Hell onward. An envoy of Khaenri’ah, an executioner by the name of the King, a merciless murderer who wishes to muddy the waters in spite of death.
And yeah, Kyryll does not care for any of this, really. Removing Rerir as an annoyance would be a good choice, and so he doesn’t mind fighting, but a thought flits by him and catches his attention. If Rerir is the one in control of the Wild Hunt, then wouldn’t it serve him well to exterminate of the threat, for Illuga? Suddenly, working within such a large group of people seems beneficial.
Although it is an odd grouping, he won’t lie. Ineffa, a mechanical… maid? Housekeeper? With seeming origins from Natlan. Aino, the young inventor who he’s more fond of than he’d like to admit, sharing her affinity for cream-based desserts. Varka, apparently, who isn’t there as of now but is most definitively involved. Lauma, the Moon Chanter, and however the hell she got the director of the Curatorium of Secrets on board, but sure.
Investigated for a murder, that’s a new one. The Phantom– Rerir taking on his form is nothing new, but doing it to frame him for something so low for a man he had nothing but respect for is disgusting. The whole time, Kyryll does his best to not just take it as a bore, thoughts of Illuga entering his mind and keeping him company as he is investigated for murder and then goes through a truckload of old mission reports.
‘Your reports are overdue, Sir Flins.’ The Illuga in his mind scolds him while he reviews previous incident reports that the captain has most definitely, most probably spent hours reading through during his visits to Kyryll’s lighthouse. ‘By months! Sit down and work on them before I make you!’
When he chuckles over this to himself and Paimon asks why, he does not have an answer for her. The Traveler mostly stays silent, working methodically, occasionally glancing upwards at Kyryll..
“Mister Flins,” she finally speaks, in the midst of their reading. Kyryll had been falling asleep with his eyes open, so he blinks to re-orient himself. “The people of Nod-Krai don’t stay here permanently, do they?”
“They do not,” he answers. His fingers skim over one of the texts again, willing himself to focus. Kuuhvakhi draining… what seems to be an antithesis instead being a will of testament. Resilience has always been a quality he’s admired, and this has only further solidified that. “Nod-Krai is more often than not a pitstop for the occasional traveler, or some sort of deal must be established in this godless land. Not so godless anymore, I suppose.”
The Traveler hums, going through her own papers. “Are you in Nod-Krai permanently? No one seems to know you, well, and while Jahoda has said that might just be due to the ratniki’s reclusive nature, this doesn’t seem to apply to you.”
At that, Kyryll pauses. “What an odd topic of conversation for idle chit-chat,” he muses. “Surely, you’re not all that curious about me?”
“I am.”
Plenty has happened. This time should be a blink in his memory, his exceptionally long lifespan, and yet it isn’t. “It’s been 11 months, 18 days, and 22 hours since I have started residing in Nod-Krai. In a short couple of days, it will be an entire year.”
“I see.” The Traveler stays silent, for a moment longer, viewing incident reports, before speaking again. “Which category do you fall in, a traveler, or a dealer?”
Neither.
Kyryll came here for one individual, and found a treasure trove of wisdom waiting to be unearthed patiently. He says as much, compiling his findings into a little pile he deems important, and finds he hates sifting through all of this information.
Upon hearing his story of coming here, The Traveler glances upward at him and allows her gaze to linger deliberately on his carefully sculpted features. “I see. You have an intended, then?”
“No.” Kyryll answers. “Perish the thought. Why would I have such improper thoughts about my superior?”
The Traveler makes a face. “You just called him yours.”
“Because he is.”
And she stares, in an incredulous way. “Then how…?”
Kyryll doesn’t dignify her with an answer, instead choosing to gesture at what he’s compiled. “Surely, we have better to discuss at this moment?”
The Traveler does not argue, because they do, in fact, have better to discuss.
As much as Kyryll would enjoy a relationship as such with the young master, they did not... start off on the 'correct toe', Kyryll believes the saying to be. So Illuga is Kyryll’s, and he's aware of such a thing, but Kyryll is not yet his as Illuga hasn't accepted the fae.
Illuga would have to be blind to miss Kyryll’s affections. Luckily, all of Kyryll’s eyes and also facets work, so he can acknowledge Illuga’s blooming affection toward him. It’s a fragile, young thing, and Kyryll mourns the fact that it will die eventually.
How many years does he have left with his beloved? 10? 20? When will Illuga, the trained soldier he is, look toward tomorrow with peace in his heart? When will he indulge in a selfishness so strong that he chooses to look forward to another day out of pure want? The Traveler comes closer, and Kyryll does her a favor by showing his findings.
So what is he supposed to do, when a feathered friend approaches and shares the disastrous news that Rerir is planning on revitalizing himself once more?
What does Kyryll do, knowing that there’s a threat to this peace, to this life he’s found himself living, to the people he’s interacted with, to the cause he’s found importance in?
Kyryll fights.
And when the loud, deafening boom hits his ears, when Rerir, Rächer of Solnari, arises from the ashes once more, Kyryll is prepared to fight, to defend, to see a better tomorrow through. He has found a cause with a group of people, ready to defend their home, their friends, their peace, their futures, and Kyryll does not turn his eyes away from the blasphemy against death as moonlight wraps him in it’s warm embrace.