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In the legion of the Ratniki, the name Kyryll Flins was near synonymous with ill luck and bad omen.
Though, this was due in no part to his disposition; over the course of his twenties he had in fact grown into a well-mannered and dutifully clever man. Anyone who had the pleasure of meeting Flins could report with clear conscience that he was polite, loved a good joke, and knew boundaries.
… Knew boundaries a little too well, perhaps. Owing to an incident during his early lightkeeping years, Flins retreated wholly into himself. He left his fractured squadron, took up a solitary post at the cemetery where fallen ratniki are buried, and from then on ceased to venture from his lighthouse.
That was around fifteen years ago. He was thirty years old now—give or take—and seemed content with his life, albeit rather lonely. Each year the Starshyna extended an invitation to rejoin a squadron, and each year Flins graciously turned it down.
And therein lay the rub: a lone ratnik is a dead ratnik. The Lightkeepers worked in groups to illuminate each other’s paths and cover each other’s backs. Without that camaraderie, a lightkeeper’s death was as easy as forgetting extra kerosene for their lantern or mistaking the whispers of the Wild Hunt for the whistle of the wind.
Flins’ propensity to work alone scared most ratniki. How had he even survived for fifteen years with so few resources and relationships? Rumours soon spread that he was perhaps cursed, inhuman, working with the Wild Hunt, or some sinister combination of the three. It became taboo to consort with him.
But, again. Those who did come across him during their travels had no choice but to hold him in the highest regard. He simply had that effect on people: his earnest desire for company was charming, while the mysteries he wrapped around himself like so many shrouds were too intriguing to leave alone.
One such person was Illuga.
Flins had never been naturally inclined to pick favourites, but out of all the people who would come to visit him at his lighthouse on the island, Illuga was the one he looked forward to most.
Dear Mr. Flins,
Your last letter was a little late. Everything alright at the cemetery? I’ve finally cleared my schedule for a visit later this month. I tried to time it so we would be able to celebrate the tail end of the holidays together—I think you mentioned you never have—but I’m running into some obstacles with my squadron. Operating on limited manpower after a bad mission last week, and… Well, the long and short of it is I’m gonna be a day later than I anticipated. I’m very sorry to disappoint you, but I hope we can still make a relaxing time of it. I’ll bring some small fireworks to set off on the beach to make it up to you.
Remember when I told you about that lighthouse we were installing at Cliffwatch? It’s all set up, now, and illuminates our camp quite nicely. When I look at the light, I can’t help but think of you, you know. It’s sort of like when we stare at the night sky and see the same moon. When you look up at your lighthouse, think of me every now and again, won’t you?
Wishing you health, always,
Illuga
It must have been the fiftieth time Flins had read the letter since receiving it. The hundredth time his eyes caught on the phrase, I can’t help but think of you, and his ears flushed red.
He smiled to himself, nearly giddy. He would have to get his emotions under control soon. Today was the fated meeting: Illuga had taken a day off, as promised, and would be making the journey to the cemetery. Flins treasured these days more than anything, because they were the days when he had Illuga all to himself.
Flins meticulously folded the letter along its well-worn lines and placed it in his letter box. Then, he walked out to the island’s tiny dock and waited patiently, scanning the northern mist for an approaching boat. He barely felt the icy wind from the strait whip against his cheeks.
Finally, he spotted a vessel emerging from the fog surrounding the island. It bobbed gently over the dark waves. When he could make out the familiar silhouette of a certain grey-haired ratnik, Flins fought to keep a smile off his face.
It had been a while since he had seen another person. Illuga was the only one who visited him on purpose, as it happened, and there had not been any wayward travellers of late. Besides that, Flins had not heard of any interesting auctions lately, so there had been no reason to make the trip to Nasha for many weeks now.
It made his eagerness a little too palpable, in all likelihood. As Illuga drew closer to the shore, Flins caught the rope he tossed over and secured it tightly to a dock post. He reached for Illuga’s hand before Illuga even had the chance to offer it, and within seconds they were standing face to face on the creaking wooden dock. The waves periodically knocked Illuga’s boat against the pilings, punctuating the quiet air with quiet thuds. There was cargo to unload, Flins noticed, but for a moment he wished only to stare at his visitor.
“Your cheeks look cold,” Illuga said in lieu of greeting. His smile felt like enough to melt the chill of the salty air.
“I waited breathlessly for your arrival.”
Illuga snorted and reached his hands up to warmly clasp Flins’ wind-reddened face. “Did you?”
It took willpower to stand motionless, not allowing himself to lean into Illuga’s touch.
“Help me bring my stuff up to the lighthouse,” Illuga suggested, letting his hands drop. “I’ll stay here tonight if you’ll let me.”
Flins’ heart stuttered in his ribcage. “You’ve come quite far. Only the cruellest of men would send you home so soon.”
It was five years since they met, Flins supposed, although that time had passed in such a relative blur compared to the rest of his gloomy life that it was tricky to keep track at times. Flins had been at his worst back then, constantly plagued by the memories of his early lightkeeping days. On a whim one day, he travelled to Piramida to pay his respects to his fallen comrades— a sort of sheer desperation, praying fervently that they might forgive him so he could finally be at peace. Illuga learned of his situation that day, and was at once determined to personally oversee the young man’s wellbeing. “That island of yours is so far from Piramida… and, besides, it’s so dreary!” Illuga would say sternly. “Somebody needs to make sure you don’t die, seeing how you don’t seem to care!”
And Flins had always assumed that Illuga’s concern would be short-lived… But here he was, five years later, still faithfully boating supplies over to the lighthouse as though he were being paid to keep Flins alive. (He wasn’t; Flins had checked with the Starshyna out of an abundance of paranoia.)
Illuga was just that sort of person. It made Flins’ chest swell with bated breath, sometimes, before he inevitably remembered that Illuga naturally treated every ratnik with the same kindness.
“Hey, careful with that crate!” Illuga called out as Flins lifted a wooden box from the boat. “Fireworks.”
Flins set it on the dock with a soft thump. “You really brought them?”
Illuga looked up at him quizzically. “If I said I would, then why wouldn’t I? The holidays ended yesterday, but we can pretend they’re still going…”
Flins had nearly forgotten about the holidays: the festival, the traditions of Nod-Krai’s people, the parties. He cared chiefly for Illuga’s visit and could hardly spare a thought for the reason Illuga was visiting.
“Then, I thank you for going to the trouble,” Flins said in an assuring tone. “You’ll be able to teach me the… intricacies… of celebration.”
“Sure thing.” They gathered all the parcels and crates that Illuga had prepared and began the short trek up to the lighthouse. It was illuminated, of course, and the brilliant beacon of pale light cut through the miserably pervasive mist to guide their way.
Once they had sorted away the boring things—rations, paperwork, and the like—they started a fire to roast some fish that Flins had caught earlier.
Illuga sat heavily next to him and let out a breath, sinking deeply into the bench like a deflating jellyfish. Flins looked down at him, amused.
“That was a heavy sigh.”
“Huh…? Oh.” Illuga leaned his chin on his hands, balancing his elbows on his knees, and returned Flins’ gaze. “Patrol has been intense, I guess. We lost some guys a few weeks ago.”
“I’m… so sorry to hear that.”
“Oh! No, they—” Illuga’s eyes widened. “They aren’t dead! Just injured. Sorry. You can really feel it when even a single squadmate is absent, y’know? So, with Valdis, Vlaicu, and Egle on leave, I’ve been on quadruple duty.”
“Indeed,” Flins murmured. He knew well the pressures associated with a broken squadron.
Illuga’s expression grew suddenly troubled and he looked away. Flins knew that he knew vaguely about the disaster that befell Flins’ comrades fifteen years earlier. They were surely thinking the same thing in that moment.
There were times when Illuga’s blue eyes contained the weight of experience beyond comprehension. He looked young, it was true; perhaps even younger than Flins himself. But it was an unspoken, unaddressed fact around Piramida that Illuga had always… been there. As long as anybody could remember, even the veterans. He observed the tragedies of the legion. He was there to pick up the pieces when his fellow ratniki fell apart.
Flins knew not what it meant (or, out of respect for his most treasured visitor, wished not to pursue his suspicions). And it hardly mattered—no, it didn’t even cross his mind—as long as Illuga still visited him and treated him with the same care.
Flins felt a hand on his shoulder. Illuga reached his fingers out and gently tapped Flins’ nose, offering him a comforting grin. “Maybe some fish will settle your mind.”
“You’re the one who needs settling, Illuga.” Flins caught his fingers and kissed them. He chuckled when Illuga pulled his hand away with a disapproving scowl.
They laid out their feast. The fish were steaming and tender. Illuga had brought along some potatoes and rough bread. He also offered Flins a flask, which just so happened to contain firewater. They traded it between themselves, laughing at each other as the liquor burned its way down their throats. Their conversation stretched long into the meal, ranging across all manner of topics they enjoyed.
“Who’s visited lately?” Illuga asked at one point, using a knife to slice the bread into manageable chunks.
Flins took the piece offered to him and shook his head, smiling. “Why, the seagulls and the shore crabs.”
Illuga shot him a look. “Have you been to town, at least?”
“Is that an invitation? There’s no need to obfuscate, Illuga. I would be happy to accompany you to town.”
“You love to deflect, don’t you?” Flins’ smile widened in satisfaction as Illuga took a particularly generous swig from their flask. “If I wasn’t around, what would you do? I worry about you. This island is so overcast.”
“I’ve never minded it.” Flins took the liquor and drained the last few sips. “Are you perhaps hinting that there might come a day when you no longer visit?”
“Nothing like that…” Illuga’s eyes once again filled with a troubled haze, but he seemed unwilling to elaborate.
“Then, what is there to worry of?” Smiling to hide his unease, Flins leaned close to his companion. “You’re the only visitor worth welcoming. I need nobody else.”
Illuga shoved him away halfheartedly and stood. Flins could see the firelight dancing in his eyes. “Alright. Alright! That’s enough from you. I think you drank too much.”
“Surely not.”
“Uh huh. Let’s go down to the beach now.”
Illuga insisted that he could handle the setup and instructed Flins to sit on an overlooking stone ruin as he worked. He tamped the fireworks into their launch tubes and arranged them across the rocky beach. Flins watched in amusement as he stumbled over a piece of driftwood and nearly dropped the crate.
“Careful, Illuga,” he called out. “Are you sure you didn’t drink too much?”
Illuga waved his hand dismissively and fumbled in his coat pockets for a matchbook. “I can hold my firewater, thanks. Now, don’t move. I’ll come to you.”
Flins needed no persuasion to agree to the proposition.
He so enjoyed when Illuga was here with him. The cemetery was miserable on the finest of days, but it was at the very least insular. That meant that, whenever Illuga visited, they might as well have been the only two people in the entire world. Ah, if only…
Illuga lit the fuses in a hurry and ran to Flins with wide eyes, as if his excitement could not be contained. He hopped up onto the crumbled wall beside Flins and tucked himself close against his side.
Flins lifted his arm and hesitantly looped it around Illuga’s waist, giving him ample opportunity to pull away. He was ready to relax into the position when the fireworks suddenly started up, and the noise of the abrupt explosions made him flinch slightly.
Illuga laughed, exhilarated, as bursts of colour streaked through the dark sky. It was loud, and they would have had to speak against each other’s ears to be heard, so they saved their thoughts for the end of it. Flins’ eyes darted repeatedly to the side profile of Illuga’s face, craned upwards in admiration of his own handiwork. The fireworks were beautiful, but he preferred to watch them as they reflected in Illuga’s steady eyes.
It was over quickly, of course, and the scent of gunpowder and smoke wafted over the beach as the wind dispersed all evidence. Flins’ arm trembled slightly.
Illuga looked up at him searchingly, seeming thankfully unaware that Flins had been staring at him for a good long while already. “So? What do you think?”
“… Very nice.”
“Ha!” Illuga patted Flins’ thigh. “Should I feel proud or scared that your eloquence has vanished?”
Flins managed to swallow the feelings that were building in his throat. A grin flickered across his face. “Perhaps both.”
“Hahaha!”
Flins stiffened as Illuga fell closer against him, gazing out on the dark strait. They had never been so close before. Was this a holiday tradition?
In fact, Flins could practically count on both hands the total number of times he had touched another person in the past fifteen years. Once during the joint Ratniki funeral of his squadron, when the Starshyna of the time had clasped his shoulder supportively… Several incidents at the Flagship—before he had stopped going—where overeager strangers brushed up against him to gauge his interest… The collection of precious moments spent with Illuga, whether they brushed hands, knocked knees, or— yes, there had been the one time Flins had carried him to his house after a rare and rowdy evening in the Piramida mead hall. Just once, though.
They had never been this close, and Flins did not feel that he wished for the moment to end. The way Illuga relaxed, his head drooping against Flins’ shoulder, it was tempting to believe that he felt the same.
But dusk had long passed and the air’s chill was bordering on inhospitable. As sterile and dim as Flins’ lighthouse might have been, it was surely warmer than this stone wall by the water. Illuga eventually broke the spell and jumped down from the ruins to start cleaning up the aftermath of the celebration; Flins quickly followed suit.
“Next year, I’ll take you to Nasha and we’ll actually celebrate,” Illuga promised. “Setting off our own fireworks is fun and all, but we missed out on all sorts of stuff.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“Well, the music, for example.” Illuga briefly mimed the playing of a fiddle. “You ever danced? We could try. There’s good food, too.”
“Ah… I see. You hate fish.” Flins sighed dejectedly, glancing up to catch Illuga’s reaction.
“It’s not that!” Illuga protested. “I mean things that can’t be cooked over a fire or easily transported all the way from Piramida. Like… I don’t know, berry tarts?”
“I would happily eat a berry tart you brought for me, even if it was smashed beyond recognition during the journey.”
“You know it’s really frustrating to talk to you sometimes, right?” Illuga buried his hands in Flins’ hair and mussed his bangs until they were tangled and unkempt. Flins let him.
They stumbled their way back up the craggy island and shut themselves inside the living quarters of the lighthouse, wherein Flins had been taking up residence for many a year now. It was too peculiar to be called a home, exactly, and a little too lived-in to be deemed empty. Flins enjoyed collecting bones and rocks, and more recently he had gotten into the hobby of preparing herbaria and mounted specimens. He displayed his finds most proudly throughout the halls and stairways and rooms, though Illuga was the only one who had ever borne witness.
“I’m sure you know already, but I confess I only have one bed,” Flins said to break the silence as they climbed the stairs.
“Got a bedroll?” Illuga asked. Slung over his shoulder was a hefty pack containing his travelling gear.
“I do not…”
“Oh. Well, an extra pillow will do just fine. The floor works.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer…” Flins could not hesitate, or even he would lose his nerve (shameless though he was). “Sharing the bed? Of course, if you are averse to the idea, I understand. But I would not let you lie on the floor; I will gladly take it upon myself.”
“I don’t mind sharing!” Illuga said, eyes widening slightly. They seemed to almost glow in the dim lighting of Flins’ house. “Rather, it’s your bed, so I didn’t want to assume anything.”
“I sincerely apologize for the belated offer.”
“Don’t worry about it.” They reached Flins’ cramped bedroom and Illuga set his pack down beside the bed. “I actually used to share bedrolls with my comrades all the time, so it might even feel nostalgic.”
Nostalgic… With his comrades… Flins cast his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, feeling the brunt of his ill luck.
They learned something very quickly once it was time to retire: the bed was rather small for two grown men. They could lie shoulder-to-shoulder, but Flins’ left arm hung off the edge as a consequence unless he crossed it over his stomach.
“Illuga, I am uncomfortable.”
“What?! What do you want me to do about it?”
“May I turn and face you?”
“… Fine…”
Suppressing a smirk, Flins shifted his body and turned his head. He could faintly see Illuga’s face, his eyes closed peacefully as if he had never been more comfortable in his life.
“Illuga…”
Illuga’s eyes flew open and he stared unseeingly up at the low ceiling. “Yeah?”
“I am cold.”
“Cold? How? Isn’t this your bed?”
“I cannot help the way my body feels.”
“Again, what do you want me to… Ah.” Illuga reached over without looking and pinched Flins’ cheek reproachfully. “I see what you’re doing.”
“Whatever might that be?”
“Ugh, whatever!” Illuga groaned. Flins knew his exasperation was merely feigned. “Come here!”
With a low chuckle, Flins moved yet again. The blankets rustled as he tucked his head into the crook of Illuga’s neck and enveloped as much of Illuga’s body with his own as he felt he reasonably could.
For his part, Illuga gathered up the majority of Flins’ dark hair, laid it out gently behind him, and began combing through the strands with his fingers.
“Go to sleep,” he whispered.
“Have you ever done this with your comrades?” Flins asked impulsively.
Illuga’s fingers stilled. “Was that bothering you?”
“Not at all.” Flins nuzzled closer to Illuga and breathed in the scent of his skin.
“I would only do this with you, you know…”
“… I beg your pardon?”
“Go to sleep.” Illuga squeezed him tightly, their bodies pressed closely together, and Flins’ probing questions evaporated from his mind.
They fell asleep like that. It was perhaps the warmest night of Flins’ pathetic existence.