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"Hey, have you heard? There's an old rumor circling around Piramida."
"The one about the shadow in the abandoned cemetery off Paha Isle? Who hasn't heard of it? It's been here for ages!"
"Huh? Can't say I have…"
"You can't be serious— everyone's heard of the Azure Flame. Y'know, the weird specter with the blue flames that hovers near that huge monument in the center of the cemetery? People say it's been there for centuries."
"But…why?"
"No one knows. But most everyone thinks that…"
…It's protecting something precious, whatever's in that monument. They say that it lost something, or someone, with how loyal it stays close to the grave.
A family member perhaps? Or a lover? None really know for sure with how weathered the writing is on the headstone. Not to mention the specter's blue flames haven't really helped with any attempt at reading the letters on the stone.
People can certainly try to get close— many have, with varying levels of success. The specter doesn't react all that much to those who simply enter the cemetery, nor does it do anything when people get within a few feet of the tomb.
It's to a point where some audacious individuals have tried raiding the grave. After all, if such an entity were protecting it, certainly that meant there was something valuable inside, right? It wasn't like it was really doing anything either, so surely it was harmless?
The only thing they managed to find were the nightmares that haunted them for months after. The same went for those who ventured into the cemetery with the aim to destroy, either seeking to hurt the specter or any of the graves nearby.
And those who tried to even touch the monument in the center with malicious intent…well, they never got a chance to say what happened. But their absences spoke volumes.
The incidents spread like wildfire through Nasha Town decades ago, and even beyond into all of Nod Krai. All telling the legend of the Azure Flame who guarded the mythical monument with a blazing protectiveness, a rage that wouldn't be quelled for eons to come.
'Do your best to desecrate the resting place of its most cherished, and it will repay you tenfold', the stories always warned. Not that anyone really knew if who the grave housed was in fact its beloved, but it made for a more compelling tale.
Of course, there were always the more foolish who tried repeating the same mistakes as their ancestors— always for the thrill of proving such rumors wrong— but every time, without fail, a new story would be added to the mix.
Young Hilda who attempted to touch the Azure Flame herself, only to feel a cold chill sweep through her blood as soon as her hand made contact, nightmares flooding her mind for weeks. And after, those around her thought she lost her mind when she would mutter to herself something about faeries.
Bold Ragnar who circled around the monument with the intention of startling the creature, who only succeeded in getting himself scared witless when blue flames erupted from around the grave, encircling the grave. Ragnar himself might've been set alight had he not jumped away in time, the embers just barely brushing against his skin. He told anyone who would listen about the cold eyes that stared after him as he ran away, lightning crackling after his feet while he scrambled to get back to his boat.
"I can still see them now, in the back of my mind—" he said hysterically, hands gripping at his hair, "It's looking for me. The Azure Flame is looking for me— looking to kill me for disturbing its beloved—"
It almost got to a point where the abandoned cemetery was nearly banned by the League from further access, only for the decision to be argued against by some who were far more fortunate than others.
"I went there to deliver some flowers to the graves," gentle Therese objected, "I mean, it must've been a long time since those people were visited, right? They only ever had the Azure Flame to keep them company and people who wanted to raid them for treasure."
Her husband nearly fainted when he found out she ventured all the way to such a haunted place, but she reassured him that nothing happened. Only the breeze became a little warmer and lighter, more inviting and less oppressive, caressing her head as though someone were ruffling her hair.
"And I could feel someone's gratitude," she looked down at her hands, as though she could still feel their appreciation through her fingertips, "There was a voice that quietly said 'thank you' as I was leaving."
Little Larson said much the same thing, when he got lost and somehow found his way into the abandoned cemetery. The air was chilly, the little boy said, his soaked clothes making it worse. The wind howled through the graveyard, and he got so frightened he started crying, not knowing where to even begin finding his way home.
"That's when I saw these little wisps of blue flame," he excitedly gestured with his hands, dashing to specific places in the room, "They'd appear here, and then here, and then there, and I just knew they wanted me to follow them!"
His mother nodded solemnly, "That was how we found him, running up to us excitedly on the beach and talking about how the blue flames led him home."
In the end, the bottom line for those daring enough to try their hand in visiting the haunted cemetery was "do not anger the Azure Flame", along with the suggestion to bring some offerings for the residents of the cemetery.
"Their stories may have faded, but the dead still deserve at least some respect," the elderly murmured quietly in agreement, "We don't know who they are, just that they existed, and that should be enough to warrant a visit."
Do the foolish still attempt to stoke the fire? Of course, and the stories have never truly stopped coming up, even decades later. They still invoke fear in the hearts of those who listen to them, and they watch the shadows warily, as though the Azure Flame will jump out of them searching for retribution.
It's become a constant back and forth between those who fear the shadow enshrouded in blue flame, and those who feel saddened by its loneliness in the cemetery. Be afraid, or be not, the contradicting statements always overlapping with each other for ages.
Yet, even with all the opposing opinions surrounding the mysterious figure, it still remains at the towering monument in the center of the abandoned cemetery.
Always hovering. Always protecting. For eons more to come.
"Quite the reputation you've built up for yourself."
The blue flames shift at the sound of a familiar voice, embers coalescing into a tangible figure; blue hair cascades down their back as yellow eyes regard the new visitor.
"Nothing too horrific, I would hope," a dry smile reaches their face. "It's been quite some time since you've visited, Traveler."
And yet that blond hair and youthful appearance hasn't changed in the slightest.
"Too much time, I would think," the Traveler chuckles, "Long time no see, Flins."
Flins hums idly, his thumb absentmindedly running across the stone of the monument beside him, "Well, time means very little to me, as you are well aware."
His distant expression brings the Traveler's eyes to the grave, a more somber silence settling over the two of them as the blond Outlander kneels in front of the tomb to lay down a bouquet of Frostlamps. The words have long weathered away from the stone— nothing Flins could do about that, even though he tried so hard to stop the erosion— but the way the fae hovered so close said enough.
"No wonder I thought the figure in the rumors sounded so familiar," the Traveler glances over at Flins, whose face remains as impassive as ever. They can see the quiet darkness seeping into his gaze, though, grief weighing down on his shoulders in a way not many people would be able to notice.
They turn back to the grave, brushing off imaginary dust from the top of the monument.
"You've been protecting him all this time, haven't you."
It's not a question, and even if it was, they both already know the answer to it.
A huff escapes Flins' lips, humorless as he tilts his head, bangs covering his face, "There isn't much else I could think of doing."
The Traveler exhales heavily, shaking their head as they pick off debris that isn't there. Flins continues to watch them, before his gaze sidles to the horizon that never seems to let the dawn arrive.
Such an uninviting place this cemetery has become, all warmth sapped from it as though it died along with the only sun that ever graced it. Even the waters seem darker than before. The ghosts are quieter, too— he hasn't heard them in a very long time, not even their idle mutterings. Maybe they too felt the absence.
But perhaps it is just the void inside him talking.
"You could see Nasha Town, y'know," the Traveler pipes up again when the air shifts to become just the slightest bit colder. "It's changed a lot, though I guess that's to be expected considering how long it's been. But the League seems like it's holding up pretty well."
"Is that so? I'm glad to hear it," Flins' tone remains as polite as ever, that detached sort of cordiality always an indication of his lack of interest.
"Not to mention the Frostmoon Enclave has also grown quite a bit. I think Columbina's more frequent presence has really helped, especially since she's tried to become more of their close friend rather than their distant goddess."
"That is good. Lady Columbina certainly deserves having more people surround her with warmth."
"Right? It took a while, though, maybe a few decades after she had returned."
"Certainly, but she seems to be working hard."
The Traveler chuckles lightly, before their breath hitches, words stopping in the middle of their throat before they look up at him uncertainly. Flins, on his part, only inclines his head in mild curiosity.
"You're allowed to speak your mind freely, Traveler."
"Oh, no, it's not that— it's just," they hum, their eyes sliding over to the towering structure in the distance. Flins follows their gaze, understanding dawning on him about what they must have to say.
A familiar lighthouse sits in the distance, its silhouette bigger and light brighter than he remembers.
"Well, I'm certainly happy to see Piramida growing so well," he ends up speaking for them, a small laugh leaving him when they exhale in relief. "It's not as though everything that's connected to him are forbidden topics, you know."
"I know, I know, I just wasn't sure if it'd still be…dredging up painful memories, is all," they mutter sheepishly, resting their cheek on their hand as they trace their finger along the grave, outlining where the ghost of letters remain. "I mean— after all, by the time I had gotten the news, all I could find was the aftermath…and what it did to you."
Flins remains silent, his hand twitching towards the signal lamp that forever remains near the grave stone, darkened for eternity. He clenches it into a fist instead.
The Traveler notices, because of course they do, but they say nothing, choosing to look back out to Piramida instead.
There's so much blood, was the Traveler's first thought as they rush through the burnt plains of Voidsea Outlook to the foot of Piramida, crimson staining their boots and grass crumbling to ash under their feet.
"There's an emergency…Piramida…Wild Hunt anomaly…" they had only managed to hear pieces of murmurings earlier on the road, Ratniki running across Paha Isle towards Nasha Town, panic stricken across their faces to the point they don't even notice them as they sprint past, "Starshyna Illuga called for reinforcements, but…last…?"
Standing at the foot of Piramida, the Traveler could only see just how much they underestimated the destruction of what had happened. Blue flames still flickered across the ground in a way they normally wouldn't, not with how careful their master always was in their control. The remnants of magenta flames were being gradually snuffed out in the wind, the last of the Wild Hunt dissipating into nothingness before the Traveler had even arrived.
Injured Ratniki slumped against the walls, varying degrees of grief scrunched in their expressions.
Some of them had their heads in their hands, refusing to look at the very front of what used to be the Lightkeeper's stronghold— their home.
Anleifr was punching the wall bloody with increasing force, Valdis trying and failing to get him to stop even as his own fists were clenched until his knuckles were white. Rollon was crumpled on the floor, his entire body shaking, while Egle buried her face in her knees beside him.
Aedon weakly circles around a spot near the front, his light dim and wings barely able to keep himself in the air.
A bird's mourning song echoed through the silence of Piramida.
The Traveler felt their heart stop in their chest when they finally turned to the entrance.
A black shadow cradled a fallen body, bloodied and torn beyond repair. Azure embers wrapped around the two figures, erratic in how they flicked towards the air.
"Flins…" the Traveler murmured, taking a step forward before a crash halted them in their tracks, commotion happening near the makeshift infirmary.
"Sir Nikita, please! You just regained consciousness!"
"Let me see him," no amount of effort could've stopped the desperation from seeping into the previous Starshyna's voice in a way it never had before. "Please, I have to see him—"
The Traveler could only watch as Nikita persistently dragged himself to where Flins and the motionless body lay, blood seeping through his clothes as wounds were mercilessly reopened.
Flins made no movement even as Nikita reached them, his grip unrelenting when Nikita reaches a trembling hand out to brush aside bloodied, sandy-colored hair.
That's when the Traveler notices the broken signal lamp sitting beside them, its once comforting warm light forever shut off.
Illuga.
In the midst of the static crackling in their mind and ears, the Traveler could only barely register the agonized scream of a father outliving his child.
No one had foreseen the Wild Hunt coming back with such ferocity. Rerir was gone, the Abyss pushed back— there was no reason for it to have regained such strength with nothing to feed off of.
But it had, and Illuga was the sole life to pay the price for it, becoming one of the shortest lived Starshynas within the history of the Lightkeepers.
Perhaps that was what he aimed for: becoming the only sacrifice. Years of surviving and running away finally culminating into one final act of heroism where he didn't need to say goodbye to anyone, where he could finally be the only one to bid his farewell.
It didn't make the loss hurt any less.
Nikita would hardly leave Illuga's house afterwards, his body becoming little more than skin and bones the last time the Traveler saw him before he passed, following after his son into the beyond.
The Nightmare Orioles were barely able to piece themselves back together, their Captain Rollon eventually having to be the one to slap everyone back to their senses. No one commented on how tears streamed down his own cheeks every time he grasped his badge.
Flins—
Flins drifted. He had long given up trying to keep his appearance together, his body nothing more than flames and shadow as he hovered around the Final Night Cemetery.
That was where they decided to bury Illuga, rather than back at the graveyard near his home Piramida. In a sense, though, the Cemetery was still as much his home as Piramida was. It was where he was able to find solace in a life of loss and regret, where a blue flame could give him comfort and a place for him to let himself unravel.
Nikita hadn't objected to it, confessing that Illuga told him once that if there were anywhere he'd like to be buried, he'd want to be near his Sir Flins.
So they lay him to rest next to that blue flame.
And that was where Flins slowly isolated himself and the cemetery from the rest of Nod Krai— even more so than he had before, his shadowy figure keeping vigil over his beloved's grave, tender azure flames caressing the ground beneath him as though he were touching his nightingale's face.
Thus began the rumors of the Azure Flame, and the monument he guarded.
The Traveler stares back out at Piramida, taking in how the Lightkeepers managed to rebuild themselves after that tragedy.
A statue was built in Illuga's honor, standing right next to the Torchforger as his successor— the Beacon of Piramida, their last and only line of defense that protected their home. Though the names have been long lost to time, the metal rusting, their legends continued even to the present.
"You should at least check Piramida out sometime," the Traveler huffs, looking over to where Flins now leans his head against Illuga's grave, his eyes closed in deep thought. "His legacy still isn't forgotten."
Flins makes a noncommittal hum.
"Or maybe look at the rest of Teyvat? You've never been beyond Snezhnaya or Nod Krai's borders, have you? The rest of the world has changed quite a lot— I think you'd like to see it."
Another hum, the fae's eyes fluttering open as he stares at the bouquet of Frostlamps.
"I'm quite content to stay by my Young Master's side," he murmurs, "Just as he had protected Piramida eons ago, I'd rather protect him. Even in death."
It was the only thought keeping him tethered to this world, stopping him from falling into another indefinite slumber like he had the first time.
Because if he were to wither and fade away into nothingness, who would be left to keep his beloved company? Who would stay and keep watch over his grave, ensuring no more harm comes to him as it had when he were a part of the living?
The Traveler heaves another sigh, but they relent, "As unmoving as ever, I see."
There's no bite behind their words, though.
"…The both of you were, really," they add, gaze turning almost fond. "Stubborn beyond reason."
"We may have rubbed off on each other," Flins agrees dryly. "Though it was likely to our detriment."
"'Likely'? Try 'definitely'," the Outlander rolls their eyes, "I don't think I need to remind you of what happened at Kipumaki Cliff all those years ago."
A snort, "No need, Anleifr wouldn't let me forget about it as soon as he found out we were together. 'Protect him and for the Moon Goddess' sake, don't let him leave your sight'…or something like that."
Not that those words really helped him when it truly mattered. A simple glance away, and that was all it took for his light to be snuffed out.
"That sounds like him," the Traveler chuckles, though something in their eyes grows concerned when they see his own gaze starting to drift yet again, "I can hear Illuga protesting all about it, saying something along the lines of not needing to be watched so closely."
The air shifts at the Traveler's words, turning colder, making them look up with a questioning hum, only to see Flins' downcast expression. There's a scrunch between his eyebrows, as though he were searching for something, only to come up with nothing but frustration and pain.
"His voice…" Flins murmurs, so quiet the Traveler had to strain their ears in order to hear him. "Can you still hear it?"
"…Huh?"
A soft, mirthless laugh leaves Flins' lips as he turns his face towards the grave, his hair spilling over the stone.
"I can't."
His hand clenches into a fist.
"I haven't been able to for a long time."
A chilling wind passes through the cemetery, the soft brushes against grass being the only sound in the ensuing quiet.
"I've drawn his face more times than I could count," Flins continues with another exhale, his eyes hidden behind his bangs, "I can perfectly envision— without any effort— the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles, the mole on the crest of his cheek just kissing the edge of his long lashes whenever he gives a particularly bright laugh."
Flins unclenches his hand, turning it over and back— studying it, searching it for something as though it could take back whatever he's lost.
"I know each strand of hair and the scrunch of his nose like the back of my hand, the way his eyebrows would furrow together whenever he's in deep thought or when he's exasperated with me."
He flexes his fingers.
"Ask me to draw the scars that line across his body and I can replicate them flawlessly. I've memorized all the ways in which color paints his visage. The cerulean of his eyes leans just the slightest towards lilac, with the scarlet ring surrounding his pupils a touch lighter than the ruby of his earring."
His breath hitches.
"But if you tell me to remember what it sounded like when he gave that small, sheepish chuckle of his— or how his voice sounded when he called for my name, my mind can only grasp at silence."
The Traveler remains silent for a long while, their hand gently thumbing along the leaves of the Frostlamps.
They're only too familiar with the fear of losing what was once remembered, most of the faces that they've met along their journey becoming nothing more than a blend of colors, their voices a fading echo.
At least Flins is doing a little better than them. Or perhaps he's doing a little worse, if the dark shadows under his eyes were of any indication.
(The Traveler doesn't know what they would do if they could no longer remember their sibling's voice anymore. They can't imagine how Flins must've felt when he first realized that part of Illuga was starting to fade away.)
"Do you wish you could hear him again?" the question slips out of their mouth before they can stop it, and they freeze, carefully gauging Flins' reaction.
The fae doesn't say anything for a long time, his lips pressed together, deep in thought.
"…I would give anything to hear him, just one last time," he confesses softly, before giving a wry laugh, "However, I am nothing but a selfish, greedy fae, so I am aware that one time would never be enough."
"I see."
"But," Flins pauses for a brief moment, "still being able to remember his smile has made the pain…a little more bearable."
As long as he can remember his smile, and how it once lit up the world, Flins thinks he can bear losing a little bit of everything else.
That brings a smile to the Traveler's face, relief settling into their features, "That's good to hear."
The Traveler leaves shortly afterwards, mentioning that he was their last stop in Nod Krai before they make their way to the other nations. A brief visit to both him and pay their respects to Illuga, they said, before they venture again into new worlds.
They both don't mention the sun rising over the horizon, even though the Traveler had arrived when it settled well above the waters.
"Will you be okay?" they had turned back briefly, watching him with no small amount of concern in their eyes.
Flins nodded his head, still remaining where he's always been all these centuries: beside Illuga.
"I've managed to withstand the tide of loss for the past several centuries," he smiled then, tired but no less genuine, "I do believe I can endure the next several thousand."
It's not healthy, and they both know it, but the Traveler is also well aware that there's nothing more they can do to persuade him once he's made his mind.
So, they gave a small wave instead.
"Make sure you take care of yourself, then. If only for his sake."
Flins hummed at that, but otherwise didn't offer any other answer.
The Traveler took it anyways, setting off once again on their long journey, just as they always have been. Just as they will continue.
Just as Flins has remained in this abandoned graveyard, enshrouding himself once more in flame and shadow. Just as he will continue.
Flins doesn't know how long it's been until the next time he feels another presence.
Visitors, both welcome and unwelcome, have been steadily dwindling across the years, leaving him to scarcely anything else but his thoughts and memories.
But he hears it, the soft padding of boots hitting the sand, the quiet, labored breaths of someone making their way up the hill. The shuffling of fabric, the shifting of something along with a grunt. Perhaps they are carrying something quite heavy.
(It takes him back, a little, to an age where a bright face insisted on bringing him a heavy load of supplies each week, even though their body was clearly straining from all the weight.)
He doesn't move from where he sits in front of Illuga, content to keep his head resting on the cold, weathered stone. Flins has ignored harmless visitors decades ago, he can surely ignore this one, this individual who bears no ill-intent.
The firm footsteps stop a ways behind him, the newcomer panting slightly from the trek uphill.
Flins can feel their gaze lock on the monument, before it drifts down to his form. There's a slight hitch in breath.
"So, you're the Azure Flame?"
His fire stills.
("So, you're Sir Flins?")
Something lurches within Flins at that voice, a sound he's long accepted as eternally lost.
Is it perhaps the heavens playing a trick on him?
Or perhaps it is nothing more than a figment of his imagination.
But how could you have imagined it? a voice within him murmurs, you've long lost the ability to recall what it sounded like. You couldn't imagine it even if you tried.
But Flins doesn't turn around, not yet— if this is an illusion, he'd rather it continue than turn around and find nothing to be there but air.
And yet.
He is nothing but a selfish, greedy fae.
So he turns around—
—and feels his soul stutter in his chest.
He's sure, certain, that if he had a heart, it would have stopped.
Because why, oh gods, why do lovely, lovely, familiar eyes stare up at him?
"My old pops was telling me about this urban legend that's been in our hometown for centuries," that voice continues.
(His eyebrows furrow the same way when he's deep in thought. He refers to his father the same way, everything is the same—)
"He said something about there being a legendary entity keeping guard over the abandoned cemetery a little ways south from our home, always protecting this big monument in the graveyard's center."
Flins thinks he can remember something Illuga told him, so long ago, the familiarity of hearing his voice bringing up the memories in startling clarity.
(And yet, it's not his voice, but everything is the same and Flins doesn't know what to think—)
"The townsfolk always seemed a little afraid of you, saying not to anger the Azure Flame or try to desecrate his resting place," the young man in front of his scratches the back of his head absentmindedly, "Me personally, though? I thought you sounded a little lonely."
("Everyone in Piramida always seemed a little off-put by you, saying you're pretty difficult to get close to, especially when you isolate yourself all the way out here. Me, though? I thought you sounded a little lonely.")
"So I decided to bring some supplies and keep you company for a little bit! O-Only if you're okay with it, of course."
("So I'll be delivering supplies to you and keep you company from now on! Of course, only if you're okay with it.")
Flins doesn't know what to think anymore, the voices in his memories melding with those of the present, faces blending together into one, and it's as though Illuga is standing right there, in front of him, unharmed like nothing had ever happened and he hadn't been gone for the past several—
He thinks he remembers now, that something that Illuga asked him about, when they sat on those rusting benches, watching over the waters towards the light of Piramida.
"Say, Kyryll, do you believe in reincarnation?" Illuga leaned his head against Flins' shoulder, body lax in a way it never would've been back in Piramida where his duties as Starshyna shadowed over him.
"My, what brought on this conversation, my dear?" Flins rested his cheek on the top of Illuga's head, smelling the sun and sweat and hint of Pine Amber. "Such a strange question, I would think you're in a hurry to try reincarnating."
Illuga huffed beside him, but there was no real heat behind it, "That's not what I'm saying and you know it."
"I only jest, love," Flins chuckled, before he hummed to himself thoughtfully, a hand coming up to card through Illuga's hair.
He started growing it out ever since becoming Starshyna, and at that point, it had started brushing against his shoulders, letting Flins' fingers slip through their crimson strands.
"For us fairfolk, reincarnation is a rare topic," Flins admitted, "Considering our long lifespans, to think of what could happen after the inevitable was…a distant concern. Unthinkable, even, to a certain extent. After all, why should we worry over something that wouldn't happen for ages?"
Illuga grumbled something or other about that not really answering his question, tilting his face up to fix Flins with a stern look.
"But do you believe in it?"
Flins held his gaze for a long while, seconds ticking between them until a solemn smile made its way to the fae's face.
"I don't know if I do," his eyes trailed down to Illuga's hair spilling between his fingertips, "but it sounds like a lovely thing to believe in."
Illuga continued staring at him, his eyes searching for any signs of Flins omitting anything like he usually did. When he found nothing but unfiltered honesty, he slumped back against the fae's frame contentedly.
"You still haven't answered my question, dear Illuga," Flins chides half-heartedly, "Why ask such a question?"
His beloved faltered, making a small sound of hesitation as his eyes glanced to the side.
"…The Traveler just told me something interesting. Something about the Ley Lines."
Flins lifted a delicate brow, "Oh?"
"They said that, for some people, when they return to the Ley Lines, there's a chance that their souls can resurface in Teyvat in a new form," Illuga wrung his hands together, one of his obvious tells that he was feeling anxious. "It's a long process, though— they said it could take centuries, even eons, and it's only really a theory in their mind."
His Starshyna's eyelashes fluttered, something akin to hope sparking in his gaze.
"But— I know that I'll have to leave you, someday."
Flins' hand stilled on Illuga's shoulder.
His face twisted, "Must we talk about something so macabre when you still have—"
But Illuga silenced him with a shake of his head, "I'd rather talk about this sooner than later, regardless of how much time we have left."
Flins' mouth closed at that. He knew, by the moons of course he knew, that time was not on their side. Even less so with the line of work they're both in. He knew it didn't favor Illuga.
And of course Illuga was all too aware of it, "So before I know for a fact that I'm leaving, I'd like to ask you something, while I know I still can."
Flins couldn't help it, the way he let his face soften as it always did around Illuga.
"For you, my dearest Young Master, anything."
"I haven't even asked yet, Kyryll!"
"You don't need to, you already know I could never refuse you."
"Ugh, just humor me, won't you?" Illuga sighed, playfully swatting at his shoulder in a small act of pettiness.
Reaching around to intertwine their fingers, Flins tried his best to stay his rising nervousness.
"Ask away then, love."
Illuga's mouth pressed into a thin line at the endearment, his expression horribly open and vulnerable.
"If I— No, when I reincarnate—" his breath hitches, eyes growing glassy as his fingers tightly wrap around Flins' hand, "will you find me? Can we find each other again?"
Please find me, is what his eyes say.
As if Flins would respond in any other way.
"Even if it takes several thousand years, Illuga," Flins brings their hands to his chest, "I promise you that our reunion is inevitable."
Perhaps he should apologize to Illuga now, since it wasn't Flins who found Illuga, but rather the other way around. Just as he had the first time.
But his silence seems to have been read as a rejection from the young man in front of him, who bears such an identical countenance to his beloved, because the man shifts uncomfortably on his feet.
"If you'd rather stay alone, that's fine too," he gives a small chuckle, noticeably disheartened, "I understand that this monument means a lot to you and you'd rather be alone with them."
"Ah," Flins blinks, "No, I must apologize for my prolonged lack of response, I was simply taken aback by the title— it has been a long time since anyone has referred to me as such, after all."
The fae shifts his flames back into his lantern, straightening to regard the young man properly as his form materializes from shadow and smoke into a solid body. He hears the man take in a sharp breath as the bright blue embers make way for black fabric.
"That's…the ancient Lightkeepers' uniform," the visitor murmurs under his breath, "So— you were one of us too?"
Flins tilts his head with a small smile, "Indeed. I take that to mean you are also a part of the Ratniki?"
How predictable, he thinks, because of course his Young Master would always fall into the same path he had centuries before. Illuga always did say he could never think of a life outside of working for the Lightkeepers.
"Yes, I'm a Squad Leader, actually," the young man brings his hand to a salute, "Though we aren't fighting the Wild Hunt nearly as much as those of your time had, we're still working hard to keep the light alive in Nod Krai."
(When he talks like that, he sounds just like him, doesn't he? Always talking about wanting to make sure the light prevailed over the land he loved, wanting to become a beacon for the dawn to arrive.
Is he always destined to become like this? Treading the path of heroism that may or may not be fated for him.
Will this one fall to the same end as his predecessor? Will Flins be too late again?)
"It is wonderful to hear that our legacy is still going strong," Flins hums, the smile on his face growing just the slightest bit more genuine, "How fortunate I am to be able to witness someone as honorable as you continuing our mission."
The young man's face immediately grows red, his hands wildly waving in front of him, "Oh, no, I'm not all that— if anything, we have you to thank for being able to continue it in the first place…uh…"
His shyness slowly ebbs away as quickly as it had flared up, brow furrowing in thought as something registers in his mind.
"Actually, what do you want to be called? Since you seemed surprised when I called you the Azure Flame."
Flins' flame stops in his lantern.
Right.
This isn't him.
Of course he wouldn't know.
"I've gone by the name Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins, once upon a time," he fights the ache that grows in his chest, the vulnerability biting at his ankles as he bares his name wholly unprotected.
Names for fae, after all, were sacred— they were not to be taken lightly, not to be sacrificed on nothing but a whim.
For this young man, though, with a face and name so close to his dearest, Flins would sacrifice it all for him as many times as he needs to.
"But for you, Young Master, you may simply call me Flins."
There was a time, however, when you would call me 'Kyryll'.
But that time has not yet come. Flins doesn't think he would be able to bear it just yet, if he allowed this young man to call him by the same name his beloved once called him.
He knows the warmth he seeks in that voice would no longer be there, not now, at least. It might not be for a long time.
So, until then, if only for the preservation of his own heart, Flins will keep that name and voice close—
"Mr. Flins…"
—Even if the pain still lingers in his chest.
("Sir Flins!")
"Wait, Young Master? I'm hardly anything like one."
…
And— really.
Flins can't stop the laugh from escaping his chest, the familiar faces and voices melding together into one. They're too much alike, their scrunched up noses and downturned lips as they argue against a title that could not fit them more.
(How impossible it is, to separate the two of them.)
"Is—Is it really that funny? Wait, are you teasing me, Mr. Flins?" the squad leader's voice rises in increasing indignation as red dusts the tip of his ears, "Please tell me it was a joke!"
"On the contrary, Young Master, I am quite serious about referring to you as such," Flins manages once his laughter has died down into a small huff. His head tilts forward, bangs covering the way his smile slowly morphs into a grimace, "It is only…me reminiscing. Please, forgive me if it bothers you."
"I— well— no, it doesn't bother me at all," the man falters, noticing the shift in Flins' mood. "If anything…I would say it sounds a little familiar."
Flins' hand tightens into a fist, the leather creaking at the strain.
"Is that so…?" he breathes in deeply, steadying himself against the stone of his beloved, ever supporting him, even from beyond where Flins could reach. "Regardless, may I be so bold, then, to ask you of what it is you are called? My Young Master."
Such familiar words, carefully chosen in a way that stops his blood from taking what it wants, phrases rearranged so as to cut all strings.
Of course he remembers how this dance went, when he's already stepped into its tune once before.
("Would I have the honor, then, of knowing what it is the Young Master is called?")
"Ah!" the young Ratniki startles at the reminder, "I'm sorry! It was rude of me to forget introducing myself. I am—"
And of course, the tune remains silent to the ears of the other, their words completely ignoring the notes of the song and wandering into the jaw of the selfish.
("Right! My apologies, Sir Flins, for not introducing myself sooner. My name is—")
"Illugi."
("Illuga.")
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sir Flins."
But Flins will reel in his greed and desire, as he had once before. Because why cage a nightingale to the ground, when it was destined to soar into the skies?
Why chain such a precious soul to himself, when he could let it go to shine brighter, trusting that it would come back to him?
Wasn't a love nurtured to be free better than golden shackles?
Flins certainly thought so, centuries ago, when Illugi was instead Illuga, in a time when he started calling him Kyryll and not Flins anymore. Even when Flins held his cooling body amidst magenta flames and azure smoke, beautiful eyes forever closed in serenity.
He still believes so, even now, as his beloved with no memory of them stands in front of him. As he stares up at him with those beautiful eyes he thought he had eternally lost.
Flins feels his lips twitch into a small smile.
He thinks the long night may finally be making way for a new dawn.
"…No, I believe the pleasure is all mine, dear Illugi."