Archive of Our Own

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Flins did not consider himself a sentimental person. He had lived too long, seen too much, and lost too many to cling to the small comforts of companionship. But he had also learned to recognize the moments that mattered.

Every morning, Flins watched the path. It was a habit he had developed over the years, one he refused to look at too closely. He told himself it was nothing more than a habit, a way to stay prepared for visitors and the unknown.

But the truth was simpler than he cared to admit. He watched because he hoped to see a familiar figure emerge from the mist. The tower, for all its ancient stone and sturdy walls, felt incomplete without Illuga within them.

Ridiculous, he told himself. You have survived these years alone. A few days without the boy's chatter should not unsettle you.

And yet, when the familiar figure emerged from the mist, something loosened in his chest.

Illuga never disappointed.

He appeared at the usual hour, a bundle of supplies slung over one shoulder, his breath misting in the cold air. Even from this distance, Flins could see the warmth in his step. He walked with the energy of someone who had never learned to be still, whose very existence seemed to radiate light.

The young nightingale, Flins thought, had come to sing at his door.

He descended the spiral stairs slowly, his hand trailing along the cold stone. The lighthouse felt quieter than usual, though he couldn't say why. The fog had rolled in thick from the sea, muffling the world in silence. Or perhaps it was the strange heaviness that had settled in his chest since dawn, a premonition he refused to name.

When he opened the door, Illuga was already there, smiling.

"Mr. Flins! I brought the monthly supplies. And—" He reached into his pack with a flourish, producing a round loaf wrapped in cloth. "Fresh bread. I baked it myself this morning. The old man says I'm getting too good at it, and I told him that's impossible—you can never be too good at bread."

Flins took the offered loaf. It was still warm, the heat seeping through the cloth into his palms. He brought it to his nose, inhaling the familiar scent of yeast and hearth. "You spoil me, Young Master."

"That's the idea." Illuga stepped inside, stamping the frost from his boots. He shrugged off his heavy coat and hung it on the hook by the door. A hook that had been installed specifically for him, though Flins would never admit it.

"The old man says I work too hard, but honestly? I'd rather be useful than idle. And besides—" He looked around the lighthouse's main room, his eyes lingering on the cold hearth. "You never light a fire in here anymore. How do you even stand the cold?"

"I've grown accustomed to it."

"You say that about everything." Illuga set down his pack and began unpacking. Dried meats, preserved fruits, a small sack of flour, and a jar of honey that glowed amber in the dim light.

"You're accustomed to the cold. You're accustomed to the dark. You're accustomed to being alone. One of these days, Mr. Flins, I'm going to find something you're not accustomed to."

Flins allowed himself a small smile. "I am accustomed to your company, Young Master. Does that count?"

Illuga's cheeks flushed. Whether from the cold or the words, Flins couldn't tell. He busied himself with the supplies, his movements suddenly jerky. "That's... that's different. That's not—" He huffed, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

They fell into their usual routine as Illuga organized the supplies while Flins prepared tea. The young man chattered about his latest mission. A patrol, nothing dangerous, though Flins noticed the way Illuga's hand drifted to his chest as he spoke.

Curious.

"Are you well, Young Master?"

Illuga blinked. "Hm? Oh, yes. Just tired. Long night, you know how it is." He laughed, but the sound was thinner than usual. "Ivar and I were up until dawn cataloging reports. The old man wants everything organized before the next rotation. He's been in a mood lately—something about the northern patrols, I think. You know how he gets when he's worried."

"Indeed." Flins studied him, noting the pallor of his skin, the faint sheen on his brow, and the way his fingers trembled as he set down a jar of preserves. "Perhaps you should rest before your return journey."

"I'm fine, Mr. Flins. Really."

"Of course." Flins poured two cups of tea as always, though he never drank his. "The bread is exceptional. You must teach me your recipe someday."

"I would, but—" Illuga paused, frowning. "Actually, that's not a bad idea. Why don't I stay for a while and teach you? The old man gave me the rest of the week off. I could—" He swayed slightly, catching himself on the table. "I could—"

"Illuga."

"I'm—" He blinked rapidly, "I'm sorry, I just—"

Flins moved before he could think, crossing the room in an instant and catching Illuga's arm as his knees buckled. The young man was burning, but this was no ordinary fever. Flins recognized it immediately, and cold dread settled in his chest.

No.

"Illuga, look at me."

Illuga's eyes were glassy, unfocused. "Mr. Flins... I don't... I don't feel well..."

His voice trailed off. His body went limp.

Flins caught him before he fell, lowering him to the floor with gentleness even as terror clawed through his chest. He pressed a hand to Illuga's forehead, then his chest—and felt it.

The mark.

Buried deep, festering in his soul. A wound from the Kipumaki Cliff, finally surfacing. Flins felt it pulse beneath his palm. It had been waiting, growing, feeding on Illuga's guilt and grief until it was strong enough to consume him.

Flins closed his eyes. His flame flickered beneath his skin, responding to his distress.

This is my fault.

He had known. Looking back, Flins realized he had known the instant Illuga stumbled through the door. He had simply refused to believe it, telling himself the young nightingale was simply tired.

Arrogant fool.

He gathered Illuga into his arms, cradling him against his chest. Illuga was so warm, but it was burning with a fire that would soon consume him if Flins did nothing.

And Flins had never been good at doing nothing.

He carried Illuga to the cot in the corner. It had been placed there years ago, after Illuga had first fallen asleep at the lighthouse. A practical addition, Flins had told himself, for those nights when the young man arrived too late to make the journey back to Piramida.

He had never admitted that he simply wanted Illuga to be comfortable, to have a place to rest in the home he had made for himself.

Home. The word felt strange in Flins's mind. He had abandoned the concept long ago, along with the court of the Belyi Tsar and the life he had left behind. But Illuga had changed that. Illuga had taken these cold stones and made them feel like belonging.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "I am so sorry, Young Master."

Illuga's face was pale, his breathing shallow. In sleep, the years fell away, and Flins saw the child he had once been. The boy who had survived the black flames and rebuilt himself from ruins. Flins remembered him, a small child trailing behind Nikita, his eyes already carrying the weight of grief.

He had known, even then, that this child was special. That he would grow into someone extraordinary. But Flins had kept his distance, watched from afar, convincing himself that caring was a luxury he could not afford.

And then Illuga had started visiting the lighthouse. He brought supplies, stories, warmth—filling the empty spaces Flins had believed were permanent. He reminded Flins what it felt like to be alive.

I will not let you die, Flins thought, his hand trembling against Illuga's brow. I cannot. I will not.

He rose, his mind already searching for answers. The ritual was old. It had been passed down through generations of his kind, a secret known only to those who carried the blue flame.

But it was never meant to be used lightly. The ritual was not a simple act of healing. It was an exchange. A promise made between flame and life. The blue flame could cleanse even the deepest corruption, but it demanded a price in return.

That was why it had been forgotten. Why those who carried the flame rarely spoke of it.

Because to save another’s life, the wielder had to offer something of equal value from themselves.

He had never thought he would need it. Never thought there would be anyone worth using it for.

But Illuga was worth everything.

Reaching for his lantern, Flins prepared for the journey to Piramida. He would need Nikita's help. And Illuga would live. Flins would make sure of it.

But a desperate part of him clung to hope. Perhaps the healers would find something he had missed, some simpler cure that would spare Illuga and leave his secret untouched. He would bring Illuga to them first. Let them prove him wrong.

He almost believed it could happen.

But beneath that fragile hope, Flins knew the truth. The mark was unmistakable. No healer's hands could reach it, and the ritual was the only way.

And he would need to tell the truth.

After centuries of existing beyond the reach of time, Flins wondered if immortality had ever truly been a gift.

Because if he performed the ritual, he would lose the flame. The power that had carried him through centuries. The very thing that had kept him alive long after everyone else was gone.

If he refused, he would lose Illuga.

And for the first time in a very long time, the choice was easy.

But easy did not mean painless.

He would lose everything he had once been. Everything that had defined him.

And still, he would choose it again.

Forgive me, Young Master, he thought as he lifted Illuga once more. Forgive me for everything I have hidden from you. Forgive me for what I am about to do.

Flins emerged from the lighthouse into the biting cold, the door closing with a hollow thud. The mist swallowed the tower behind him as he descended the path, Illuga limp in his arms.

There was no time to waste for anything but the journey ahead.

The path was long and treacherous, but Flins did not notice. He moved through the frozen plains like a ghost, blind to the cold, deaf to the wind. His entire being was focused on the young man in his arms.

Nikita would be furious. The Starshyna had never fully trusted Flins, always sensing there was more to him than he revealed. But Illuga was Nikita's child in all but blood, and that bond would overcome any doubt.

Flins reached the gates of Piramida as the sun was setting. The guards recognized him immediately; everyone knew the lighthouse keeper never left his post unless something was wrong.

"What happened?" one of them asked, his face pale.

"Illuga is ill," Flins said, his voice calm despite the terror in his heart. "Take me to the Starshyna. Now."

The guard hesitated only a moment before nodding, turning to lead the way through the winding streets of Piramida as Flins followed. Illuga's weight seemed to grow heavier with each step, as if the darkness inside him was already claiming more.

They reached the command post. The guard pushed open the heavy wooden door, and Flins stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

Nikita burst through the door within minutes. His face was ashen, his breath ragged from running.

Flins gestured to the cot where he had laid him. Nikita's gaze landed on Illuga, and the last of his composure crumbled.

But before he reached him, his eyes flickered briefly toward Flins.

The lighthouse keeper looked exactly as he always did.

Except his hands were trembling.

And Nikita realized something he had never seen before.

Flins was afraid.

Nikita crossed the room in three swift strides, dropping to his knees beside the cot. His hands hovered over Illuga's face. "What happened?"

"He collapsed at the lighthouse. I have done what I can to stabilize him, but—" his voice faltered for just a moment.

But Nikita noticed.

Flins, the man who never hesitated, who faced storms and battles and loneliness without complaint, had hesitated.

"I do not know. He came as usual. He seemed tired. Then—" He spread his hands. "This."

Nikita's jaw tightened. He pressed his palm to Illuga's forehead, then his chest.

"Take him to the infirmary," Nikita said, his voice with fear. "The healers—they'll know what to do."

Flins did not argue. He lifted Illuga again and followed Nikita.

The infirmary doors swung open under Nikita's hands and Flins stepped past him, laying Illuga on the nearest cot. 

Flins then stood in the corner, watching as the healers worked. They tested for infection, for poison, for Abyssal corruption. Each test came back negative.

But each result was supposed to bring relief. It brought only confusion. And confusion, in Nod-Krai, was worse than a diagnosis. A diagnosis could be fought. A mystery could not.

Alia's hands fell to her sides. "I have never seen anything like this. There is no cause I can name."

Nikita paced. "What do you mean? You don't know?"

Alia shook her head slowly. "The symptoms are unlike anything I've encountered. His body is... consuming itself. His vitality is draining from the inside."

"From what? A curse?"

"Maybe." Alia looked at Illuga's pale face, her expression troubled. "But curses leave traces. This—" She gestured helplessly. "This is something else."

Flins stepped forward. "May I?"

Alia looked at Nikita, who nodded curtly. Flins approached the bed, though he already knew what he would find.

Still, he placed his hand on Illuga’s chest and confirmed. The mark of the Wild Hunt, pulsing beneath his palm.

The last flicker of false hope died in his chest.

"You," Nikita said quietly. "You know something."

Flins met his gaze. "I have a suspicion. Allow me to take him back to the lighthouse."

"Absolutely not."

"Starshyna. Please."

Nikita's face contorted. "He's not going to that tower of yours. He needs real healers, real—"

"I can save him."

The words hung in the air. Flins had not meant to say them aloud, but now that they were out, he could not take them back.

Nikita stared at him. "How?"

Flins did not answer. He simply looked at Illuga.

"Trust me," he said. "Just this once."

It was the first time Flins had ever asked anything of him.

Nikita was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, "I am trusting you with him. If you fail—"

"I will not fail."

Flins turned without another word, Illuga cradled securely in his arms. He could feel Nikita's gaze following him, filled with desperation and hope, but he did not look back. There was no time for goodbyes. No time for promises. Only time for what had to be done.

The infirmary doors swung shut behind him. The return to the lighthouse was a race against time. The streets of Piramida blurred past, familiar buildings reduced to shadows as he moved with desperate speed.

Illuga stirred once, briefly. His eyes fluttered open.

"Mr... Flins...?"

"Yes, Young Master."

"Where... where are we going?"

"Home," Flins said softly. "We are going home."

Illuga's lips curved into a faint smile. "Home... the lighthouse..."

"Yes."

"Good..." Illuga's eyes closed again. "I like... the lighthouse..."

Flins tightened his grip on the young man. "I know," he murmured. "I know."

The moon had risen by the time they reached the lighthouse. Flins carried Illuga up the spiral stairs, until they reached the top of the tower where the altar waited.

He laid Illuga on the cold stone. Then he stepped back and looked at what he had to do.

Carved from the same stone as the lighthouse, the altar had stood for centuries. A relic of the time when the fae and mortals shared the same world.

Flins lowered himself beside the altar and closed his eyes. Then he slowly began to speak in the language of his people. The words scraped across his throat like broken glass—words he had not spoken in centuries.

"By the flame that burns within me... by the blood that flows through my veins... I call upon the ancient power that binds me to this world..."

The blue flame ignited. It spread across his skin, illuminating the dark tower with its pale light.

Illuga's eyes fluttered open. He stared at Flins, his gaze unfocused.

"Mr... Flins...?"

Flins went still. "Young Master. You should not be awake."

"You're... you're glowing..."

Flins looked down at himself. His flame was rising, blazing bright in the darkness. "Yes," he said quietly. "I am."

Illuga reached up with a trembling hand. "What... what are you doing?"

"Saving you."

"Don't..." Illuga's voice was barely a whisper. "Don't hurt yourself... for me..."

Flins caught his trembling hand, pressing it against his own chest. "You are worth hurting for, Young Master."

"I'm not—"

"You are." Flins's voice broke. "You are the only warmth I have known in centuries. You are the sunlight I thought I had lost forever. I will not—" He closed his eyes. "I will not let you die."

Illuga tried to shake his head, but his strength was gone. "Please... Mr. Flins... please don't..."

His fingers weakly tightened around Flins’s, a desperate attempt to hold him back, even as his body could no longer fight.

"Don’t look like that."

Flins went still.

"Like what?"

"Like you’re already saying goodbye."

In that moment, Flins had no answer.

Because Illuga was right.

Some part of him had already begun mourning the person he was about to lose.

Himself.

Flins looked down at their joined hands, his expression softening with sorrow.

"I am sorry," he said, "for what I am about to do."

Then he began the ritual.

The ritual called for the blood of the fae. Flins drew a blade across his palm and let the blue-tinged blood drip onto the altar. It sizzled as it touched the stone, releasing a faint, ethereal light.

Illuga watched, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. "What... what is that?"

"The truth," Flins said quietly. "The truth I have hidden from you for so long."

He placed his bleeding hand on Illuga's chest. The mark pulsed beneath his palm, recoiling from the contact. The blue flame spread from his fingertips, seeping into Illuga's skin.

"I was not always a Lightkeeper," Flins said, his voice soft. "I was not always Flins the Ratnik. I was born centuries ago, in the court of the Belyi Tsar, as Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins. I was a noble fae—a being of flame and legend, a creature of the old world."

Illuga's eyes widened. "The... the stories..."

"Yes." Flins smiled weakly. "The stories you loved to hear. The noble who gave away the gemstone. The blue flame that guided lost souls. They were all about me."

"But... but you said—"

"I lied." Flins's voice was heavy with regret. "I have lied to you, Young Master. Every day, for years. I told you I was a grieving soldier, a survivor of a terrible battle. The truth is far stranger."

He pressed his palm more firmly against Illuga's chest. The flame burning away the darkness that had taken root there.

"The battle at the lighthouse—the one that supposedly killed my squad? That was real. But I was not one of the soldiers. I was sleeping beneath the earth, sealed away in a slumber that was meant to last forever. The Lightkeepers' blood awakened me. Their sacrifice called me back from the void."

The truth hit Illuga harder than the fire burning through him. His voice came out broken, barely a whisper. "You watched them die?"

"I watched them die," Flins confirmed. "And I could not save them. Just as I could not save you from the mark that has taken root in your soul."

"The mark...?"

"The Wild Hunt. The wound you thought had healed—it did not. It burrowed into you, feeding on your guilt and grief. And now it is consuming you."

Illuga's eyes filled with tears. "I felt it," he whispered. "I felt something wrong, but I thought... I thought it was just my imagination. I thought I was just tired."

Flins bowed his head. "I knew. I saw the signs, and I did nothing."

"Mr. Flins—"

"I have failed you, Young Master. I have failed you in every possible way. But I will not fail you now."

The flame responded to Flins's touch, blazing brighter as it pushed into Illuga's body. He felt the mark beneath it, cold and pulsing, feeding on the guilt Illuga had carried for too long.

Through the ritual's connection, Flins felt more than the mark. Illuga's memories surged to the surface, dragged up by the cleansing fire. He felt the terror and grief, emotions that had become inseparable from who Illuga was.

The fire began its work.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Fire had always been Illuga's enemy.

The black flames that consumed his home. The orange flames that lingered from his nightmares. The heat that had taken his parents, his squad, his innocence.

He had never imagined fire could feel kind.

The blue flame that poured from Flins's hands into his chest was unlike any fire he had known. This fire did not burn. It searched, hunting for the darkness within, and began burning it away.  

Illuga screamed.

Pain tore through him, but grief was what made him scream. The flame reached into the depths of his soul, pulling out memories he had locked away. His mother's face, her desperate plea. His father's hands, so warm and sure. The black tide that swept them away. Olsson falling, fear in his eyes. Ivar's cries. The never-ending whispers.

Then, through the fire and the grief, something broke through. A voice refusing to let him drown.

You will live, Flins's voice echoed through his mind. You will live.

The flame burned brighter, and Illuga found Flins's face above him. His eyes had changed. They held a peace that Illuga did not understand and desperately wanted to stop.

Stop, Illuga tried to say. Please stop.

But he couldn't speak. He could only watch as Flins poured himself into the ritual, his flame flickering. 

Why?

The question burned through him.

Why would you do this?

And then, like a whisper, he heard Flins's voice in his mind,

Because I will not let this be the end of you.

The fire consumed everything. It burned through Illuga's soul like a cleansing wind, leaving nothing but the core of who he was.

And when it was done, there was light.

Illuga woke to silence.

He sat up slowly, expecting pain. There was none. His body felt... whole. Light. Like a weight he had been carrying for years had finally been lifted.

And then he remembered.

Flins.

He turned, and his heart clenched.

Flins lay on the floor beside the altar, pale. His face remained unchanged, still elegant and composed. But something was wrong.

His flame.

The lantern's blue flame had died. The glow beneath his skin had faded. Everything that had made him fae, that had set him apart from mortals, was gone.

Illuga scrambled to his knees, crawling to Flins's side. He pressed shaking hands to his chest. There was a heartbeat.

Relief washed over him first. Flins was alive.

Then the realization settled in.

A heartbeat.

A mortal heartbeat.

Something Flins had never possessed before.

"No." Illuga pulled him into his arms. "No, no, no—"

Flins's eyes fluttered open. He looked confused for a moment, then focused on Illuga's face.

"Young... Master..."

"What did you do?" The words came out broken. "What did you do?"

"I saved you." Flins smiled weakly. "That is all that... matters."

"You gave up your immortality." Illuga was crying now, tears streaming down his face. "You're mortal. You're—" He choked on the words. "You're going to die someday. Like everyone else. Like me."

"Yes," Flins said. "I am."

"I told you not to." Illuga's voice cracked. "I told you not to hurt yourself for me. I begged you. I was dying, Flins. I was dying, and I still begged you to stop. Do you understand that? I would rather have died than have you do this to yourself. I would rather have died!"

Flins reached for him, but Illuga slapped his hand away. The rejection stung more than any wound Flins had ever endured.

"I remember," Flins said quietly, his hand falling back to his side. "I remember every word you said. I remember the fear in your eyes. I remember thinking that if I stopped—"

"If you stopped, I would have died." Illuga's laugh was hollow, broken. "And that would have been better. That would have been kinder than this. Than waking up to find you—" His voice broke completely, a sob tearing from his throat. "Than waking up to find you mortal. Than knowing you gave up everything for me. Everything!"

"So why?" Illuga's voice rose, desperate and aching, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Why would you do this to me? Why would you choose this? Why would you make me carry this weight for the rest of my life?"

Flins met his gaze, unflinching. "Because I would rather live one mortal lifetime with you than a thousand years without you."

Illuga's breath caught. He stared at Flins—this infuriating man who had just thrown away eternity for him. The words hung in the air between them, and Illuga felt something inside him crack open.

"You're insane," Illuga whispered, his voice trembling. "You're completely, utterly insane."

"Perhaps." Flins smiled, but there was no humor in it. Only the certainty of a man who had made his peace with his choice. "But I am alive. And so are you. That is enough."

"It's not enough!" Illuga's voice broke into a sob. "I want you to stay. I want you to always be here. I want you to have your life again. I want—" He choked on the words, his body shaking with grief. "I want everything for you. Everything you gave up. I want you to have it all back. I want you to be happy. I want you to live forever. I want—"

Flins reached out, grabbing Illuga's wrist and pulling him down beside him. Illuga collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest.

"I am here," Flins whispered. "I am here, Illuga. I am mortal now, yes—but I am not dead. And I will be here for as long as I have breath in my body."

He held Illuga as the sobs wracked his body, feeling the tremor of grief and fear that ran through him. 

"But—" Illuga swallowed. "I need to understand. The ritual. What you did. What it means."

Flins was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke, his voice careful.

"The ritual gave you back the life you were losing. It burned the mark from your soul,” Flins said quietly, lowering his gaze. “But it was an exchange."

Illuga went still.

"And in return," Flins continued, "it took the flame that sustained me."

Illuga could only stare at him, speechless.

"It wasn’t…" Illuga murmured. "It wasn’t supposed to happen this way."

Flins smiled faintly. 

"It was always the price."

Illuga gasped.

"No," he whispered. "you knew."

"I knew." Flins’s voice was quiet. "I knew exactly what it would cost me."

The words settled between them, heavier than any silence. And Illuga understood the worst part.

It was that Flins had known what it would cost.

He had known what would happen, and what would be taken from him.

And he had chosen it anyway.

"You're mortal now."

"Yes."

"Completely mortal?"

"Yes."

Illuga shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "The flame is gone. The immortality is gone. All of it, everything you were, everything you had—" His voice broke completely. "You're just... you're just a man."

Flins smiled, soft and sad. "I am just a man. A man who loves you."

Illuga's breath caught. "You love me?"

"More than I have ever loved anything," Flins said simply. "I loved you as a child, watching you grow from a distance. I loved you as a young man, watching you become the light of Piramida. I love you now, as you sit by my side and weep for what I have given up."

Illuga stared at him, his face crumpling. He had heard the words before—in stories, in passing, and in the warmth of the Lightkeepers' banquets. But he had never heard them directed at him.

Illuga shook his head. "I'm not—I'm not worth—"

"Stop." Flins reached up, his hand cupping Illuga's jaw. "Do not say that. I have listened to you say it for years, and I have never had the courage to tell you how wrong you are. But I will tell you now. You are worth every moment of the centuries I gave up. You are worth every day I have left. You are worth it, Illuga. You have always been worth it."

"You don't understand!" Illuga pulled away, his voice rising. "You don't understand what you've done to me!"

Flins's eyes widened. "Illuga—"

"Did you even think about what this would do to me?" Illuga was on his feet now, pacing the small tower, his hands shaking. "Did you even consider how I would feel, waking up to find that you had thrown away your entire existence for me? Do you know what it's like to carry that? To know that someone gave up eternity because of you?"

"Illuga—"

"No!" Illuga turned sharply on him, tears streaming down his face. "You made a choice for me. You took away my right to decide, and you didn't even ask me if I wanted you to!"

Flins struggled to sit up, his body weak, but his eyes were fierce. "I did not make the choice for you. I made it for me. I made it because I could not bear to lose you. I made it because you are the only thing in this world that has ever made me want to live."

He paused, his voice softening. "I knew you would not allow it. I knew you would fight me, beg me, hate me for it. That is who you are, Illuga. That is why I love you. But I could not let you make that choice. I could not let you die when I had the power to save you. So I made it for both of us."

"That doesn't make it right!"

"That may be true." Flins's voice was firm. "But I would do it again. Without hesitation. Without regret."

Illuga stared at him, his chest heaving. "That's what I don't understand. How can you not regret it? How can you not hate me for what I've taken from you?"

Flins's eyes softened. "Hate you?" He let out a broken laugh. "Illuga, I could never hate you. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. You are my sunlight, Illuga. My only sunlight. And I will not let you diminish yourself by believing you are not worthy of love."

Illuga shook his head, his jaw tight with frustration. "I still don't understand. I don't understand how you can say that—how you can look at me and see something worth sacrificing everything for. I’m not someone special, Flins. I’m just a Lightkeeper. I'm just someone who survived when others didn't. How can that be worth eternity?"

"There is nothing to understand." Flins reached out, his fingers curling around Illuga's. "When you love someone, you want them to live. You want them to have a future. I gave you a future. That is all I ever wanted."

Illuga sank to his knees, his body trembling. "I can't," he whispered. "I can't be the reason you die."

"Then be the reason I live." Flins lowered himself to the floor beside Illuga. He reached out and pulled the younger man into his arms, holding him close against his chest. "Be the reason I wake up every morning. Be the reason I smile. Be the reason I am grateful for every single day I have left."

"What if I'm not enough?" Illuga's voice was barely audible. "What if I'm not strong enough to carry this? What if I fail you?"

Flins pulled him closer, pressing his forehead to Illuga's. "You will not fail me. You could never fail me. You have already given me more than I ever thought possible. You have given me purpose."

"But I don't want to lose you," Illuga whispered.

"Then do not waste the time we have mourning the time we will not have." Flins's voice trembled. "Love me while I am here. That is all I ask."

Illuga sobbed, throwing his arms around Flins's neck. "I will," he said, his voice muffled against Flins's shoulder. "I will. I promise."

He clung to Flins like a drowning man clinging to driftwood, his body shaking. Flins held him, his own tears falling silently into Illuga's hair.

Time had lost all meaning.

When Illuga's sobs finally quieted into ragged breaths, he did not pull away. He stayed there, pressed against Flins's chest, listening to the steady beat of a mortal heart.

Mortal. The word felt like a stone in his throat.

Finally, he pulled back. His eyes were swollen, his face blotchy, his cheeks streaked with tears. The grief was still there, but it no longer consumed him. In its place was the beginning of acceptance.

"I'm still angry," he said quietly. "I'm still furious that you did this without telling me."

"I know," Flins said.

"But I'm also grateful." Illuga's voice cracked. "I'm grateful that you saved me. I'm grateful that you're still here. I'm grateful that you love me."

Flins smiled, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "I will always love you, Illuga. That is the one thing I can promise you."

Illuga's eyes filled with tears again. "I love you," he said. "I love you more than I have words for."

Flins smiled. "I know. That is what love does."

Illuga took a deep breath. Then he looked up, meeting Flins's eyes with a gaze full of love, grief and hope.

"When the time comes—when you're gone," he said, his voice soft, "I will keep loving you. I will keep remembering you. I will keep living for you."

Flins opened his mouth to respond, but Illuga held up a hand.

"I know you want to say something," Illuga continued. "But I need to say this first." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I also know—I know—that there's a chance I'll go first. I could die before you. And I need you to know that if that happens... I need you to keep living. I need you to keep loving. I need you to carry me with you, just as I would carry you."

Flins's eyes glistened. "Illuga—"

"I mean it." Illuga's voice cracked, but he pushed through. "I don't want you to give up. I don't want you to stop living. I want you to live fully, love deeply, and remember me with joy. And when the time comes—whenever that is—we'll find each other again. I believe that. I have to believe that."

Flins pulled him close, burying his face in Illuga's hair. "Very well, I will keep living." he whispered. "I will keep loving. I will keep you with me always. Whether I go first or you go first, I will wait. I will always wait. I want to have lived a life worthy of that reunion. A life full of love, full of purpose, and full of you."

Illuga leaned into his embrace. "Then it's not goodbye," he whispered. "It's just... until next time."

Flins smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Until next time."

Illuga closed his eyes, letting the words settle into his heart. Flins had taught him something. That love wasn't about avoiding the pain. It was about choosing it anyway. Choosing each other and choosing with hope.

"Until next time."

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

The End.