Work Text:
It's so cold. So very cold without the vigor of a raging flame besides you. You've become spoiled by the heat that used to radiate from the lantern; it kept you warm on frigid nights, healed the oncoming frostbite that threatens your fingers, and most of all, it is the one you cherish most.
On this lonely and snowy night, you clutch the fading lantern to your chest. Warm is an overstatement for its temperature. You struggle to determine if the faint heat on the glass is from him, or your own body heat.
His flame is dangerously low, barely a flicker inside the chamber; you'd be a fool to even try using it to light your way. It's pitiful, really, the flame looks to be dying out, and nothing you've tried has helped. You thought maybe he needed some time away, so you let him be— which unsurprisingly didn't work. Then you tried placing the lantern near the warmth of a fire, though it earned no reaction. You cradled the lantern in your arms and spoke to him like he was still here, telling him about your day, which always ends up with you teary-eyed and asking him to give you at least a sign of life. After all your attempts, it's still that all-too-familiar azure, but now pale and small, barely lighting up the frame around it. Your throat tightens at the sight. How have things become like this?
You curl your arms around yourself more, the lantern held against your body heat like someone would hold a sickly animal. Your tears have run dry; crying would be unproductive in this situation, as you've learned after days of no response. After the attack, you've been quiet, too quiet. Your personality has dimmed, just as Flins' has.
The Wild Hunt is a wretched thing; it offers mercy to none and takes from all. The Ratniki and Lightkeepers, as well as all of Nod-Krai, know this all too well, familiar with the grief of losing those around them to the hands of the abyss. And perhaps now, you too, are familiar with it.
On that unsuspecting night, you watched your beloved's chest be ripped apart by abyssal claws. This would've never happened, had he not had eyes in the back of his head. You saw the ambush before it happened, just for a split second, the purple ooze manifesting behind him plunged into his chest. It was graphic and horrific. You ran at him the moment you saw the abyss energy, but you were too late. Rather than blood, you saw a ghastly flame erupt from him, spewing hot in all directions as he fell to the cold ground. Before you could defeat the corrupted energy and run to his side for assistance, he disappeared into his lantern, becoming almost lifeless.
After the battle, the members of the Lightkeepers questioned his whereabouts. Nobody saw him helping out with the aftermath as they usually would. There was no Flins tending to the injured; he was at neither Piramida nor Nasha town— though most who knew him suspected he returned to the lighthouse, which wasn't entirely false. Finally, they asked you, and you had to bite your tongue and tell them he went on his merry way— all to preserve his identity.
Now, you're wondering if you should've said something. Others knowing his identity in exchange for help with saving him is surely worth it, right? You were almost certain that the troops' perception of him would not change for the worse. But is that what Flins would've wanted? Perhaps it was his time to return to the headstone with his name written on it. Hes mentioned wishing to fall into a slumber as he had before, and maybe that forsaken event is just around the corner. Your heart aches at the thought of having to hang his empty lantern on his grave...
You glance back down at him, stroking the handle with your thumb in hopes he can sense your affection despite his lack of reaction. "Kyryll," You've called out to him many times before, and you've been met with the same answer every time. Silence. The flame doesnt even respond; it's like hes not even there.
The snow falls quietly outside. Its peacefulness is similar to Flins. Deathly quiet, and eerily still. With a shaky sigh, you stand, tucking the lantern inside the opening of your coat. Despite being inside the lighthouse, it's barren and cold without Flins' warmth or presence. It feels as though something crucial is missing from here, like a bike with no wheels or a flower without the petals. Your feet patter on the metal floors, climbing up the steep steps to the top of the lighthouse, heading to the quietest room in the home—his room— where there are no drafts, voices of the dead, or windows creaking as the wind howls.
He rarely uses his room, aside from the times you stay over. His bed is neatly made (It usually has a thin layer of dust on the sheets, but you've been using his bed as your own during these hard times), and it looks as though nobody lives here (aside from your few belongings scattered about the room). The air is still inside; you are the only disturbance. "Kyryll, please come back to me." Your voice is hoarse from being silent for so long, holding an ache in your tone. You settle on the floor, hunched over and taking him out of your coat. He hasn't changed. Still pale, weak, and cold. Sighing out a shaky breath, your hand grips the top capsule of the lantern. A beat of hesitation hits you as you open the top of the lantern.
You're unsure of how long it's been since this thing was opened, as Flins doesn't necessarily need to open it to stoke the flame. But as the top comes off and the frame is now in two pieces, the glass chamber inside is open. This feels wrong; it's invasive. Would this hurt him? Is this uncomfortable to him? Being open and exposing your already weak self to the outside is a dangerous thing. "It's been days since you've come out. Give me a sign, anything..."
The flame flickers out of the glass chamber as your hands cup around it, sheltering the tiny thing in the warmth of your palms. He didn't feel much warmer, which only weakened your hope. "Kyryll, please," You beg, the blue flame reacting to nothing. Your throat tightens at the lack of a response.
You inhale a deep breath, sending a prayer to whatever god will listen as your lips near your cupped palms. With a steady and gentle breath, you breathe against him. The warm arm circulates in the capsule of your hands, and you can't help but notice the flicker of blue. You breathe once more, still as gentle as ever and cautious of his weak form. The flame burns on the oxygen that feeds it, growing bigger and brighter. Steadily, the heat returns, and your hands warm with the proximity of the flame. Hope returns, and you breathe against him for a third time.
The weak and dying flame is now replaced with a growing, warm one, one that's reinvigorated as it feeds off your oxygen. The fire is now burning continuously, the hot flames burning your palms. Your hands tremble as you ignore the sting, doing anything to keep breathing life into Flins. He grows and brightens; now a vibrant azure color slips from the cracks between your fingers as you stoke the flame.
You try to not let your mind get ahead, keeping yourself hopeful without celebrating too early. After all, the flame could die back down as soon as you stopped. The flesh of your hands singes; instincts tell you to rip your hands away and press them into the snow outside, but you persevere, breathing into him repeatedly.
The heat has become unbearable, the flames dance over your fingers, and you wince. It's too hot. The smell of burnt flesh hits your nose, your face scrunching as you feebly try to keep your breathing stable to give him ample oxygen. Groaning, your eyes tear up at the scorching pain— before your instincts force you to pull away, the blazing heat is gone, and a gentle light and warmth envelop the room.
A familiarity steals the breath from your lungs, just as Flins was doing moments ago. There's a pause, and everything in your head seems to still for a moment. Dark charcoals and indigo flood your vision as a heavy weight presses into you; the feeling of the embrace you've longed for wraps around your frame, a steady and tight grip. Wisps of faded hair tickle your cheeks as a hand cups the back of your head and presses you into the crook of his neck.
You're met with a gentle whisper of your name; his voice is low and oozing with affection as his breath ghosts over your ear. It feels as though you're in a dream— is this really Flins? It's not a prank or a hallucination? Your arms reach out and find that they don't phase through his body, but rather loop around his solid form.
And now, here you are, falling apart in his arms. Your tears return as you clutch him close, the burns on your hands forgotten as you grip his coat tightly, doing anything to bring him impossibly closer. He accommodates you, his arms holding you steadily as he presses his lips into the crown of your hair. "Kyryll— I-I thought you were gone—" He shushes your panicked words, stroking your hair as he whispers sweet nothings to soothe you.
"My light, I apologize..." He holds you dearly, his chest achy with almost a sense of guilt. "It was never my intention to cause you so much distress." He releases his hold on you, and you peer up at his saddened face. How bittersweet...
"You didn't say a-anything since it happened...! You never came out, you never responded— I-I had no clue if you were still with me...!" His gaze softens as you choke back sobs, your cheeks wet from the tears dripping down. He parts his lips to speak before sighing, cupping your cheek and wiping your tears with his thumb.
"Im so sorry." He hesitates. You've never heard his voice this fragile and desperate before; it makes you hold your breath for a split second. His knuckles brush the hair away from getting caught in your tears. "I was in no condition to be conscious... I focused my energy on the wounds."
Yes, the wounds. The ones you watched rip him open— shredded, even. The claws from that beast pierced through his chest and tore through his body. You shudder to even think about it; the terrifying clarity it still leaves in your mind festers as anxiety.
Your gaze flicks down to his chest, which offers you nothing as his thick layers cover his wounds. He huffs out a small breath, releasing his hand from your face. "Please, do not fret over me so much. I'm much better than I was." You simply don't believe him.
Even though he can sense that you don't entirely believe him, he instead wraps his arms around your body once more and pulls you back into a tight embrace. "I apologize...deeply." His whispered voice ghosts over your ear again, and you don't have the heart to hold it against him. It was a rather unfortunate series of events, which led to pain and confusion everywhere. You go to hug him back, but wince and jerk your hands away at the contact with the burns.
Almost immediately, Flins takes notice. He pulls back with his brows knitted in sorrow and worry, his hands tracing down your arms to flip your palms up for him to see. The burns required medical attention, and Flins' guilt increased tenfold. "Are these from me?" He questions with the softest voice, afraid that anything louder will shatter the moment. You glance away. You know that he will never let this go, that he will always feel remorseful for causing you such pain. You don't respond.
His grip on your hands is gentle as he examines them, determining the urgency with which he must act to help you. "Once again, I apologize..." He lets out a defeated huff, keeping his head down. "Though, the feeling of my entire being cradled in your hands, breathing life into me, is something I never thought I would experience. And I must say, it was most invigorating, and yet, was one of the most comforting things I may have ever had the fortune of experiencing." He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"I would let it happen all over again to be nestled in the palms of your hands, feeding on your breath as though you were my only salvation once more."