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Varka considers himself to be a man aware of his own flaws. To wit: he knows he is the type to fall hard and fall fast. It’s not that he’s against the idea of a casual dalliance, but it’s unbecoming of the oaths he swore when he became a knight, and even worse — it just makes it harder to move on when duty takes him to some far-flung corner of the world yet again. And so he keeps his distance, waits for his lovesick heart to heal, and inevitably repeats the whole cycle once again.
His infatuation with Flins, however, shows no sign of abating.
Not that he’s been very good at keeping his distance.
At first he just enjoys the quiet companionship the Lightkeeper offers — the evenings he slips away from his duties to visit the lighthouse, the way that Flins’s fire only seems to burn when he visits. Then came the realization that Flins looks forward to these visits in his own way, the proof of which is a kuuvahki-powered heater that appears in the corner of the sitting room one day.
“I thought you weren’t a fan of machines,” Varka jokes.
“You were eating through my firewood stores,” comes the flat reply, though he can hear an undertone of teasing in the blunt words.
These and other subtle, but unmistakable, signs make Varka realize that Flins, who famously prefers graves as neighbors over the living, has come to seek Varka’s company in return.
Gradually, they settle into a pattern, even if their respective duties make their meetings irregular: Flins will occasionally drop by headquarters to pass on intel about Fatui activity in the area, or join him at the Flagship for a quiet evening of drinks when the bar is empty enough for his tastes — or host Varka at the lighthouse when there’s too much activity in the town. Each visit, each story they trade or companionable moment of silence they share, makes the budding affection in his chest grow and grow, compounding until it’s almost too much to bear.
But he still can’t stay away.
Sometimes, when the weather turns foul or time slips away without their notice, Varka stays the night. Flins directs him to a room he claims is the guest bedroom, even though there are no other obvious rooms in the lighthouse basement. It’s a different environment than he’s used to sleeping in — one that smells of brine and dust, where the sound of metal creaking in the wind acts as a lullaby.
The first time he stays over, he wakes to find Flins nowhere to be seen — the only thing there to greet him in the sitting room is the blue flame lantern burning low and sedate. Worried that Flins may have gotten into trouble without it, he took it into the graveyard himself, only to nearly jump out of his skin when Flins materialized out of the fog soon after.
From that day on, whenever he wakes in that “spare bed,” Flins is always up before him, looking immaculate, as if he’d been up for hours already. Varka doesn’t pry, but the quiet amusement that underlies Flins’s morning greeting gives him the feeling there’s a joke he’s not yet in on.
He approaches the lighthouse one night after patrol with a familiar weight of anticipation settling in his chest. His visits no longer receive any fanfare; he simply lets himself into the basement sitting room as if it were his own home. Sometimes he ends up waiting there for Flins to finish his work, but tonight he’s already inside, carefully dusting and realigning the treasures on one of his many shelves, treating each one as if they were a priceless artifact in a gallery. Varka’s eyes linger on the precise way Flins handles even the smallest item, the deliberate care in his movements.
“Hmm, I think you’re missing something,” Varka says in lieu of greeting, trying not to let his voice betray his nervousness. In his pocket he palms the trinket he’d picked up on his latest expedition as he works up the nerve to present it to its intended recipient.
He’s taken to keeping an eye out for things that Flins might like when he’s out, though at first he struggled with picking up items from the old wrecks and abandoned buildings in the wilds; it felt too morbid.
That was before he found one of Flins’s skeleton jigsaws, and he realized there’s likely nothing he could find that would be any worse than that.
“Am I now?” Flins tilts his head slightly, a smile tugging at his lips. “And what would that be?”
Heart pounding, Varka reveals his gift — a pocket watch he’d found on an old shipwreck; likely once silver, the delicate filigree still peeks out from under the layers of tarnish. “Here,” he says, holding it out on his palm. “I found this over by the Eye of Kratti. It’s probably not as old as most of your collection, but…”
Flins reaches for it, inspecting it with a careful, almost reverent touch. “It’s quite lovely,” he murmurs. “The workmanship… I’m grateful you thought of me.” His gaze flicks up, briefly meeting Varka’s before returning to his new treasure, a tiny, pleased smile on his face. “I hope you didn’t go out of your way.”
Varka swallows hard, pleased by the praise, and tries to shrug it off casually. “Not at all. I just thought… you’d like it.” He hesitates while Flins fusses around with the items he’d just rearranged, making space for the watch where it catches the candlelight just so. Once it's settled he snorts when realizes there are at least three other pocket watches of a similar style among the other knickknacks. “Though I suppose the question would be, is it even possible to get you something you don’t already have?”
“Each one has a unique story,” Flins reminds him, tracing a finger along the new watch’s filigree. “But perhaps… there is one thing I’ll never have.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“I should like to have… the north wind,” Flins says softly, almost as if to himself, eyes still glued to the watch.
Varka frowns, confused and caught off guard. “That so? We’re far enough north it feels we might freeze our bones solid — you sure you haven’t got your fill of it already?”
Flins finally turns to face him, a melancholy smile on his face. The dim candlelight throws the deep bags under his eyes in sharp relief. “The wind comes and goes as it pleases, never the same twice. But the wind cannot be kept. Once contained and caged, it becomes something else entirely… No longer free, but corrupted, leaving only a shadow of its former self. Stagnant air instead of flowing wind.”
Varka has the distinct feeling he’s not speaking literally — it’s a riddle, in the way much of what he says often is, but it’s not about nature, not really.
“I suppose you’ll just have to treasure the experience rather than try to keep it in a bottle,” Varka says lightly.
Flins seems to sense his true meaning is understood and steps back, ever careful, yet there’s a possessive undertone in the way he regards Varka in that moment, not unlike the way he stares at his shelves. Even in retreat, he can’t help but stake his subtle claim.
“Experiences are fleeting, impermanent things,” he says softly. “Some things cannot be preserved, no matter how carefully they are held. Some things remain beyond reach, no matter how much we wish otherwise.”
Varka is suddenly aware of the tension threading through the warmth in the air. Flins’s possessiveness, usually so carefully concealed behind polite gestures, is on full display — as is his helpless fascination.
“That doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying,” Varka says, forcing a grin, even as his chest feels tight.
“Perhaps,” Flins says with a nod, smile small but genuine. It’s not the answer Varka had been hoping for, but it’s the one he expected.
They return to their usual evening routine of drinks and stories, but more subdued, as if the weight of that moment hangs over them still, unspoken, unresolved — charged like the air before a thunderstorm.
It’s the way they always leave things: near enough to touch, lines left uncrossed, and threaded with a current neither dared to name.
And as Varka stepped back into the chill of the nighttime air, he can’t help but wonder how long it will take before that current breaks into something uncontainable in and of itself. It’s not unlike the north wind against bare skin: untameable, inevitable, and impossible to ignore.
——
The words stick with him longer than he’d like to admit. The north wind.
It’s been days since he’s been able to make the trek to the lonely graveyard, but their last conversation lingers like a half-remembered dream. He could still hear the soft way Flins had said it, the faint glimmer of frustration in his eyes as he spoke of things that can’t be kept — of wind that, once captive, loses its freedom and its name.
And that’s before he even considers the fact that Flins has to know that’s one of Varka’s epithets.
Varka has tried to shake it off, burying himself in drills, reports, maps that need marking — and doodles. He is the Grand Master, after all, and he can’t afford to be distracted. Yet every idle moment brings him back to that lighthouse and the electric tension that had passed between them.
When the time comes to draft the next patrol routes, he makes his decisions by a habit born of being in Nod-Krai for several months now. Steady coverage among the coastal ridge, one unit sweeping inward along the beach, another continuing north along the cliffs. It isn’t until the ink dries and his knights have begun preparing that he notices — his own chosen route curves inexorably toward the lighthouse that awaits just beyond the strait.
He tells himself it’s practical. Strategic, even, or just coincidence.
But when he looks out over the frostbitten coast, guiding his squad north toward the next reported sighting of the Wild Hunt, it’s hard to ignore the pull in his chest — the sense that something is calling him back.
They trudge along in practiced formation, feet crunching in the frosted grass. The winds have picked up, carrying the sting of salt from the ocean nearby. Varka scans the horizon, one ear on the muted conversation behind him, more out of instinct than real concern. They’re nearing the next known location, and as they crest the hill, they see it — but not just the red, corrosive energy of the Hunt, but a distant flicker of blue approaching from the east. It makes Varka’s heart kick in his chest; he would recognize that light anywhere, and it pulls his gaze like a lodestar.
Sure enough, the mists part to reveal a familiar figure that makes his breath hitch — Flins, looking as composed as ever, except for the hair mussed by the sharp winds.
“It’s the Lightkeeper,” someone behind him says, but Varka is already waving an arm in greeting. He wants to call out, to tell Flins this is proof the north wind will always find its way back to him — but the squadron of knights behind him likely wouldn’t appreciate the front row seat to their commander attempting to woo a local.
Flins glances their way, his lantern flaring slightly with the movement, but there is no time for pleasantries; the earth beneath them begins to shudder with the telltale thrum of the Abyss.
“Looks like we’ve been spotted. Into formation, and move out!” he barks, drawing his claymore. His knights follow without hesitation even as Flins adjusts his path to slot into position beside them.
The first wave of creatures burst forth as Varka meets them head on, and Flins’s flame bursts into the air beside him — two forces moving in perfect rhythm, no words needed, the dance of battle speaking for them both.
Despite his initial complaints about having to patrol in the damp cold of the coast, Varka is suddenly of the opinion that this might just be the best damn day he’s had since coming to Nod-Krai.
Varka doesn’t see the monster his knights had gossiped about in hushed tones after they’d fought at his side previously, when Varka was away. Flins is something else entirely: a force of nature wrapped in leather and steel. Every movement is precise, fluid, and efficient, a perfect blend of weapon mastery and elemental control. He moves like lightning itself — swift, unpredictable, and unforgiving — as he weaves around the slower, bulkier knights with grace.
Varka is known for his own battle prowess, but when he catches sight of Flins sending a wave of Electro energy through a cluster of Abyssal creatures, it’s like watching the battlefield bend to his will. Flins doesn’t just fight — he orchestrates, sending enemies toward Varka with a flick of his spear or shift in his stance. And Varka, for his part, meets every challenge with unerring strength, mowing down the hordes as Flins cleans up the stragglers. They’re a terrifyingly efficient pair.
There’s something about seeing Flins in action that sends his mind racing. Their weapons and styles are different — Varka’s heavy, slow strikes against Flins’s elegant precision — but the way Flins adapts, anticipates, and flows with the fight is something Varka wants to commit to memory and maybe, if he’s honest, learn to emulate. As the knights regroup and head back toward town, he makes a mental note of the brutally efficient footwork he witnessed.
So engrossed in replaying the fight in his head that he doesn’t notice that Flins is following them back to town until there’s the sound of a throat clearing next to him.
“Woah — hey, didn’t see you there. Do you have business in town?” he asks after trying — and probably failing — to hide the way he’d startled at the interruption.
“Not particularly,” Flins admits in a calm and measured tone, unruffled by the battle, “but I could use a drink. That is, if you all don’t mind the intrusion… ?”
Varka’s stomach does a flip. Of course he doesn’t mind. He’s been hoping for this for weeks, ever since they’d first began their friendship, when Flins had looked at him with mischief in his eyes at the counter of the Flagship and invited him over for ancient tales and firewater. “Of course not,” he says, “you’re always welcome to join us. Isn’t that right, lads and lasses?” he calls back to the loose phalanx trudging along a few paces behind.
A chorus of responses rises — hesitant, awkward, but ultimately affirmative. Varka can’t help the grin that breaks out across his face. He almost feels like he’s won the grand prize without even trying. “You heard them. Lead the way!”
Flins smiles seemingly by reflex when he meets Varka’s eyes, though it quickly morphs into his usual mask of bland politeness. “But of course,” he says, holding his lantern aloft as he guides them back to town.
They barely stop off long enough to shuck off their armor before heading straight to the Flagship. The smell of ale, smoke, and wet leather greets them at the door, followed by the warm hum of laughter and clatter of mugs. Thankfully it’s not so crowded that they can’t commandeer a few tables, which they shove together with military precision and none of the grace.
Varka takes the head of the table out of habit, and Flins slides into the seat to his right as if it were the most natural thing in the world. On Flins’s other side, Matthias subtly shifts his chair away. It seems unconscious, but telling all the same. The rest of the table looks somewhat uneasy in a similar way: a little too quiet, far too polite. Varka realizes with a faint start that it’s been a while since he’s noticed the prickling unease that used to come with being near Flins. He’s grown used to the haunting uncanniness of his presence that it no longer makes his hackles rise — but the rest of his squad are clearly still feeling it.
“Thank you for allowing me to join you tonight,” Flins addresses the table with a slight incline of his head. “I hope I am not intruding.”
“Not at all,” Varka says, forcing himself to sound casual. “As long as you don’t mind sitting with a bunch of kids with table manners to match.”
“Hey,” Matilde whines, “some of us weren’t born in a barn.”
“I said I grew up on a farm,” Roderick hisses back, triggering the rolled eyes and snickers that tend to accompany an overdone joke.
Flins merely smiles politely as the knights bicker in front of him. The tension breaks a little further when the first round of beers are delivered to their tables, and they settle in with the familiar clink of glasses and the chorus of their usual toast.
Surprisingly, it’s Matthias — the one who’s always been the most leery of Flins — who finally takes the plunge and tries to drag the Lightkeeper into conversation. “So, are you from Nod-Krai?”
“Very few can truthfully claim to be from here,” Flins says. His voice carries that careful, distant thoughtfulness that makes everything he says sound profound. “Instead, Nasha Town tends to attract people from all over, some who end up settling, and some who eventually move on. Just the other day, I believe I saw someone from Natlan. A curious fellow who seemed to have an interest in the Frostmoon Scions.”
“That reminds me, I swear I saw a melusine skipping around yesterday. I didn’t think they ever left Fontaine!” someone blurts out. The conversation tilts and tumbles from there into a spirited contest of who’s seen the most travelers from every nation on Teyvat. Laughter fills the space where apprehension used to sit.
It brightens Varka’s heart — the sight of them warming to Flins, of that courteous smile being met with genuine camaraderie, of admiration at his stories of battles won with cunning strategy, and of laughter at his dry wit. He feels absurdly proud, as if he is personally responsible, and it isn’t just Flins’s natural charm.
Still, he can’t help but notice how deftly Flins steers the conversation away from himself. When someone asks about a rumor they’d heard — that Flins had been awarded with a medal for a particularly harrowing battle — Flins’s gaze dips to his glass.
“That was the day I lost my entire squad,” Flins says softly, neither overly matter-of-fact nor openly emotional. “If only they had been there to accept the award at my side.” He offers a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry if I’ve brought the mood down.”
And what knight doesn’t know someone who came back forever changed, or never came back at all? They make sympathetic platitudes and quickly move away from any further discussion of Flins’s experiences.
“Enough talk,” Roderick says, waving at the bartender. “Let’s see how this one handles a proper drink!”
Varka, never one to turn down a challenge — even one not meant for him — turns to Flins with a grin that’s already half a dare. “How about a little contest?”
“We’re trying to loosen him up a little, not kill him. No one can keep up with you, Grand Master,” Matilde laughs, but Flins just quirks a brow.
“Why not?” he replies with a teasing lilt, while his smirk says keep pace if you dare.
The first round burns almost pleasantly, heat blooming in Varka’s chest. By the fourth, the whole table has fallen into a rhythm of laughter and cheers, watching in awe as Flins matches Varka shot for shot with effortless grace. His expression barely flickers, eyes still bright and steady, while Varka is already starting to bloom with pink across his face.
He should stop. He knows he should stop. As Grand Master, he has an example to set. But no matter how old he grows, he’s still a man who loves a good challenge — and the way Flins smirks like he’s already won isn’t helping. Their shoulders brush when Varka wavers in his seat, twisting something low in his chest.
There are two more glasses in front of him. As he coughs through one of them, he knows he has finally lost.
“Never thought I’d meet my match,” he wheezes, his voice hoarse, though that doesn’t stop him from chuckling at his own overindulgence.
“I think you’ve been beat by your match,” Matthias snorts from across the table.
Varka sputters, hiding behind a hand, but he can’t deny the truth of it. Flins merely regards him with a knowing smile, dragging the last abandoned glass over to himself before toasting him and draining it in one easy motion.
The night begins to wind down not long after that, most of the knights having stumbled to their rooms, leaving Varka and Flins still at the table, their chairs having inched closer together through the night. “You should probably get some rest as well,” Flins chides with affection in his voice. “Let me walk you back.”
Varka certainly won’t turn down a few more stolen minutes of his company; he says his farewells to the ones still nursing the last of their drinks before tottering after the blue glow of the lantern.
The blast of cold air as they exit the bar feels soothing over his heated skin. As they walk down the dark streets, Varka sways just enough to make his next move look plausible. When he drapes an arm around Flins’s shoulder — ostensibly for balance — it only earns him a small amused huff. “Sorry, but I might need some help walking straight,” he says.
Varka might be imagining things, but Flins looks a little glassy eyed himself — looser, warmer, his smile steeped in indulgence. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you don’t fall.”
The words are innocent enough, but something about them hums with an unspoken promise. The night air feels thick with it, humid and closer and almost expectant. The world narrows to just the swing of Flins’s lantern at his hip and the steady presence of his shoulders under Varka’s arm.
He’s leaning too heavily on him, Varka realizes, more than he would allow himself to on anyone else — though Flins doesn’t seem to even notice the weight. The other man is walking with the same grace as always, as if Varka were no heavier than his ever-present lantern.
“This way,” Flins murmurs, trying to steer Varka down a narrow alley. But Varka’s oversized feet catch on the uneven cobblestone, and he stumbles, shoulder crashing against one of the buildings that flank them. Flins reaches to right him, but he miscalculates the strength needed to move a drunken knight.
The world suddenly tilts, Varka’s inertia carrying them both sideways. Flins’s back hits the opposite side of the alley with a soft thud, and Varka finds himself braced over him, one hand on either side of his head. The only thing keeping their bodies apart is the tension in Varka’s arms.
For a moment, neither of them move. The fog of the night hangs between them like a held breath. From this close, Varka realizes Flins is just the right height for him to kiss the silken hair across his forehead without even having to lean down.
Flins looks up at him, expression unreadable, golden eyes catching the distant lamplight like coins in a fountain. His hands hover uncertainly between them before settling just below Varka’s collarbones, cool and careful. There’s no pressure or pull; it’s not a rejection nor an invitation.
“You’re quite drunk, aren’t you?” Flins says, voice barely above a whisper, finally breaking the silence of the night around them.
“I might be,” Varka admits. His lips suddenly feel dry; when his tongue darts out to lick them, he sees Flins’s gaze flick down to follow the motion before darting back up again. His heart is a pounding pulse in his own ears — and maybe Flins hears it too, because his expression softens, and he puts the slightest bit of pressure on Varka’s chest.
“We should get you to bed,” Flins says. “Before you do something you’ll regret.” The words sound like a warning, but his voice lingers on the edge of an invitation. He’s looking up at Varka through his lashes, head tilted just so — waiting.
Flins is offering him an out, but it’s not the one Varka wants; as if he could ever regret this. But he also doesn’t want to remember their first kiss as something stolen in a shadowy alleyway. Nor does he relish the idea of giving in before making his feelings known. So instead, he buries his face into the crook of Flins’s neck to hide from temptation. The high collar of Flins’s coat digs uncomfortably into one side of his face, and skin as cold as corpseflesh presses against the other. He presses his nose into the stripe of skin just above Flins’s collar. There’s no pulse thrumming beneath the paper-white line of his neck.
“I wouldn’t regret this,” he murmurs against that stillness. “Not if it’s you.”
Flins might not have breath to catch or a heart to skip a beat, but, Varka thinks, this might be his equivalent: mouth parting soundlessly then clicking shut, struck silent in surprise. Those uncertain hands on his chest finally move, clutching at his coat as if to keep him close.
They stand there as rain begins to fall, pattering over the tin roofs overhead. Varka breathes enough for both of them.
“Varka,” Flins says at last, his voice a low current directly into Varka’s ear. He doesn’t pull away, but there’s a kind of plea beneath the flex of his fingers. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep. Especially when you’ll forget them by morning.”
Varka finally draws back just enough to meet his eyes. “You really think I’d just forget?” he asks, voice too soft for the tease he means it to be.
“I think the living are made to forget,” Flins says, and there’s something old shadowing his words, something hollow and resigned. “It’s a mercy, truly.”
The words sting more than they should. Varka’s hands curl against the wall besides Flins’s head. He wants to tell him he’s wrong — that some things root themselves too deeply to be so easily forgotten — but the words get tangled up in the inhuman chill radiating from Flins’s skin.
Instead, he lets out a low hum and says, “You sound like someone who’s tried to.”
Flins’s lips twitch, though it isn’t quite a smile. “I’ve had time to try many things.”
Varka could ask what that means. He doesn’t. The question sticks somewhere behind his teeth, too big for the small world they’ve carved for themselves on this rainy night.
Silence drapes over them again, but it feels different than before, charged with static — a breath away from becoming something else entirely.
Varka wants — he’s not sure what. To make Flins stop speaking in riddles. To demand to know why Flins seems to flip between interest and hesitance. But Flins shifts first, one gloved hand lifting to rest against Varka’s cheek. It’s cold and grounding, a touch meant to soothe and stop in the same motion.
“You should rest,” Flins says quietly. “You’ll catch a cold.”
Varka laughs under his breath. “A big, healthy guy like me doesn’t get sick.”
“Even so,” Flins replies, his hand falling away. “I’ll see you safely back.”
Accepting the finality in the words, Varka pushes away from the wall, freeing Flins from the cage of his arms. They walk back without speaking, the space between them alive with words left unsaid. When they reach the Knights’ temporary lodgings, Flins stands by silently as Varka unlocks the door. The lamplight above catches in his hair, turning the flyaway strands into spun gold.
“Good night, then,” Varka says, lingering in the doorway.
“Good night, Varka.” Flins inclines his head, formal as ever, though his gaze doesn’t leave Varka’s face until the door closes between them.
Varka lets his head fall forward against the sturdy wood of the door with a thunk before dragging himself upright. He can still feel the ghost of cold fingers against his cheek long after he retires to his room.
—
The morning comes slow and syrupy. Varka wakes later than he should have, head pounding and mouth dry. For a long moment, he just lays there, staring up at the ceiling, piecing together the night before.
The tavern. The contest. The firewater that burned like sin going down. A dark, narrow alley and the feeling of cold leather against his face.
The faint smell of ozone that clings to his jacket even now.
He drags a palm over his face with a groan. “Barbatos help me,” he mutters. “I really was drunk.”
He snorts. Barbatos wouldn't have helped him — he would have been drinking right by his side, egging him on.
Still, he knows the liquor isn’t solely to blame. It may have loosened his tongue and twisted his feet, but it hadn’t changed his heart. That part had been willing for some time now.
The barracks are quiet at this hour, most either still sleeping it off, or already at their duties. Someone has left a glass of water beside him; it’s gone stale. He sips it anyway, trying not to think too hard.
But, of course, he fails miserably.
It’s the memory of Flins’s hands that haunts him the most — and not just their chill. The way they’d clung to his coat like he hadn’t ever wanted to let go. The deliberate way he had caressed Varka’s cheek, not hesitant or shy, but careful. Like he was handling something fragile or precious. The look on his face that spoke to his temptation, and to his resistance to crossing that line.
He doesn’t know what to do with himself, so despite the fact that today is meant to be a day off, he decides to review the plans for his next departure. By the time he steps outside, his commander’s composure has settled over his shoulders once more. With just enough coincidence to be cruel, he runs into Flins on his way out of town near Aino’s workshop.
“Morning,” Varka calls, trying for his usual easy tone, though it comes out more uncertain than he’d like.
Flins turns to him, nodding in a politely distant greeting. “Closer to afternoon. You look… well.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Varka chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Head’s pounding like a drum. I really underestimated that firewater.”
“You made it further than most would have, at least,” Flins obliges, but his tone is too even, too careful to sound like the tease it’s meant to be.
There’s no playful glint to his eye. Just polite detachment, as if they were mere acquaintances.
“I… wanted to apologize for last night. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
Flins hesitates, then: “It is of no consequence.”
The answer should soothe him. It doesn’t; it only further confuses him.
Had it been too much, or not enough?
“Right,” Varka says finally. Flins has not stopped staring at him, his eyes roving as if seeking some sort of answer that Varka isn’t giving him. “Glad I didn’t make too much of a fool of myself.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” Flins flashes a smile, but it’s wan and brittle. He steps back, brushing away some nonexistent lint from his gloves. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
Nothing of consequence. The words echo like a bell tolling hollow in his chest.
It’s as if something invisible has slipped between them, a pane of glass he can see through, but can’t touch what’s on the other side, just when he’d thought he’d finally made a dent in the thick walls Flins surrounds himself with. It’s such a whiplash he has trouble reconciling the Flins from just now with the one from last night.
The sudden shift could be any number of things.
Varka has misread him entirely, and Flins is not interested in him that way.
He strikes that one out easily. Varka may not be the most experienced man around, but he can tell when someone is attracted to him.
Flins is embarrassed and wishes to just put it behind them; alternatively, he is frustrated that Varka won’t just make the first move.
Even if they haven’t known each other long, Flins has never struck him as the type to be shy about his desires. Granted, those desires are more often toward objects than people; maybe he’s unaccustomed to being the one desired.
No, that’s not it, either. Varka is certain he knows what it is.
They had come too close to something that can’t be taken back, and Flins is afraid.
It brings to mind his last visit to the lighthouse. He thinks of the hungry way those golden eyes had lingered on him. Of metaphors about the wind, and how to cage it is tantamount to killing it.
If nothing else, Varka is certain of one thing — he needs to know what Flins is before he can untangle this knot.
He doesn’t see Flins again before duty takes him even further north, past the lighthouse’s tiny island. It leaves him emptier than he’d care to admit.
The wind has a sharper bite this far north — a dry, needling cold that threatens to work its way through even the best furs. Varka doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, but at least the sting in his cheeks helps to keep him grounded. It’s to be a brief expedition, up to Piramida City to discuss a larger effort with the leader of the Lightkeepers, and a rare opportunity to work with one of the younger ones. The two of them are accompanied by only a light unit, their goal to avoid combat unless absolutely necessary.
Despite his youth, Illuga is the first name brought forward when Varka requested a guide through the snow-packed region — he is both knowledgeable and, coincidentally, heading that way himself — and he proves himself eminently capable, if a bit awkwardly formal.
“There’s a good area to make camp just ahead, sir,” he reports, voice slightly muffled by his scarf.
“I keep telling you, I’m not your boss — you don’t have to call me sir,” Varka chides, even though he knows the effort is pointless.
The indicated location is a well-hidden cave, cut off from the freezing winds and providing both cover and camouflage. They get a small fire going, the crackling flames throwing an amber glow over the cavern walls. The scent of smoke and thawing snow fills the air as they dig out their rations.
“So, tell me something,” Varka says after some time of companionable silence. “You’ve lived in the area a long time, right? Are there any interesting myths or legends you can share?”
Illuga chuckles under his breath. “You’ll probably think we’re a superstitious lot up here. The old ones say every shadow is haunted. But at least among the Ratniki, we’ve always believed in the fae. Some, I think, even still make offerings.”
“Fae?” Varka parrots. “Never heard of them. What are they — spirits?”
“That might depend on who you ask,” Illuga replies, clearly warming to the topic already. “You won’t see them here, but supposedly there are many of them in Snezhnaya. They’re old, old as the sea ice. They’re said to be shapeshifters, able to take human form at will. They say the fae guide the lost out of blizzards, and that they only ever speak the truth.”
“They sound quite nice,” Varka says, but Illuga hums thoughtfully.
“There are other stories. They’re skilled with their words and can lead men astray without telling a single lie. They ruthlessly track their debts, and can even twist a gift freely given into a favor owed. We’re warned to never accept a gift from a fae nor be tricked into giving one first. They’re greedy, covetous creatures who seek to endlessly expand their collection of treasures.”
He sounds like he’s recounting a favorite fairy tale; Varka can’t help but smile. “So, which version do you believe?”
Illuga shrugs, the movement dislodging some frost that still stubbornly clings to his coat. “It’s probably something in between. I might be biased by the stories from my father, though — he’s cagey about it, but he swears he’s met one.”
This catches Varka’s attention more than he expects, and he looks up sharply. “He’s met one?”
“So he claims.” Illuga adjusts his gloves. “He won’t say much about it. When pressed, he just says the stories get a lot of it wrong — they’re not all cruel, or greedy, or dangerous. They’re more mischievous than mercurial. But if you try to pry for details, he shuts up tighter than a clam. Honestly, that’s why I believe him,” he adds. “My father is very honorable. He wouldn’t invent stories like that, and if he does know of one, he wouldn’t carelessly send people its way.”
“Your father sounds like a good man,” Varka murmurs, even as his head starts to spiral in directions he doesn’t want to name.
“He is,” Illuga says, pride warming his voice. “He’s been a Ratnik since before most of the ones still left were probably even born. Maybe once we get to Piramida City, you can ask him for his stories yourself, though I can’t promise he’ll tell you anything more.”
“Ah, well, it’s just a passing curiosity,” Varka says with a chuckle, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
Illuga goes on chatting, weaving more of the region’s folklore into the conversation — the leshy that haunt the woods, Baba Yaga with her iron teeth and broomstick — but Varka listens with only half an ear. His thoughts keep circling back to the fae, gnawing at the idea like a bone.
If the common stories are true, it couldn’t be further from who he knows Flins to be. The sheer amount of debt Varka would owe if so is a frightening concept.
But if Illuga’s father is right — or if the truth is something in between — then the resemblance becomes difficult to ignore. A being who looks human but isn’t; who speaks in riddles and creative truths; whose home is more of a shrine to curiosities than a true dwelling.
Maybe it is just a coincidence. A trick of the imagination brought on by the isolation and cold.
Still, the thought refuses to let him go.
When they make it to Piramida the next day, Varka first thaws himself in the warmth of his inn room before making his way to check in with the leader of the Lightkeepers, the one they call the Starshyna. Illuga collects him when the appointed time comes and guides him to his destination once more before bowing and taking his leave.
The headquarters is a long, low structure that creaks like an old ship. It had clearly once been magnificent, but as the Lightkeepers’ numbers dwindle, so too does their ability to maintain it. Lanterns flicker between exposed beams, the light wavering over stacks of bound paperwork. The air smells of oil and ink.
The Starshyna, Nikita, is a weathered old man, his hair silvered by salt and time, but his eyes are sharp as cut glass. He sets aside the report he’d been reviewing when Varka approaches, studying him with the heavy gaze of a commander that has lost many good souls; the slow care of a man who has spent too long in a land that punishes carelessness.
“Grand Master Varka, an honor to finally meet you,” Nikita says, rising briefly to shake hands before gesturing for Varka to sit.
“Just Varka,” he replies in reflex.
“Varka, then,” Nikita allows, his voice as even as the distant horizon. “My son had great things to say about you.”
Varka kicks himself for not asking Illuga more about his father when he connects the dots after a pause. But he finds his words of praise for the young man to be genuine, if unplanned. “You’ll find I feel much the same about him. He’s a fine guide. He knows the land well.”
Nikita inclines his head, but doesn’t smile. “That’s good to hear. These lands can turn in an instant, and they’re not to be underestimated.” The wind rattles the windows as if to prove his warning.
After pleasantries are traded, Varka goes into further detail about the Knights’ activities so far, expanding on what has already been reported — in triplicate, if the stacks of paper are anything to go by — and his plans to take a larger group to Armsvartnir. Though it has been a long journey out here, being able to do this sort of planning in person rather than send some poor sod back and forth to trade letters is invaluable. Although Nikita cannot spare a single Ratnik, he provides enough maps and intel to make the trip more than worth the effort.
In the end, there’s a tower of neatly sorted documents for Varka to take back to Nasha Town between them. Nikita hesitates for a moment before leaning on his elbows over the desk, eying Varka with an inscrutable expression. “One more thing before you go,” he says. “My son mentioned you have an interest in the local beliefs.”
“Yes, he told me several tales around the fire.” Varka wavers for a moment, unsure of how to broach the subject. “He mentioned you have your own stories about a more… personal encounter with something he called a fae.”
Nikita regards him for a long moment, the corner of his mouth tightening. “He has a loose tongue, that boy. Not everything worth knowing bears repeating.”
“I don’t mean to pry,” Varka says, aiming to keep his tone level. “I’m just not familiar with the local folklore. I travel a lot, and I like to understand the lands I end up working in. Myths can tell you just as much about a place as its history.”
“A reasonable curiosity, and an admirable habit.” Nikita leans back, chair creaking with the movement. “But the fae aren’t like anything else. We don’t tell their stories to frighten children or entertain them. We tell them to be sure folk keep their distance.”
“Because they’re dangerous?”
“Because they’re not like us.” Nikita’s voice is quiet, but the stern tone carries clearly through the air. “Men make all sorts of bargains. With the Archons, with the sea, with each other. But with them, your only option is to endure their attentions until they lose interest — if you’re lucky, that is.”
Varka nods slowly. “But Illuga said you’ve met one.”
“I have.” Nikita folds his hands on the table, the dim light of the lamp catching on the silver scars that crosshatch his knuckles. “And I learned the stories are… mostly true. They can be capricious, covetous, cruel when they feel they are crossed — and it doesn’t take much to break one of their many rules. It’s in their very nature to blur the lines between truth and illusion, and they’re inexorably drawn to humans. But…” He trails off for a moment, eyes flicking down to the papers before lifting again. The harsh lines of his face soften ever so slightly. “Not all of them are so monstrous. Some of them are kind. Some of them resist the darker instincts that drive them.”
Varka takes a moment to soak in this new information, and the way Nikita says it as if he’s dancing around a secret they both know. He swallows thickly in the silence. “Sir —”
Nikita holds up a hand, and Varka settles back into silence. “Some try to live among us, and they pay dearly for it. They are very long lived, and grieve so very deeply for the impermanent nature of the people around them. If you ever meet such a creature — I’d advise you not to seek more than you deserve. Leave him his peace. He’s earned it.”
The careful choice of words makes Varka’s heart stutter. He has the uncomfortable sense that Nikita knows more than he’s letting on. It’s starting to sound less like a general warning and more like a personal admonition, or maybe a plea. “You sound like you’re talking about someone specific,” he says, challenging Nikita to speak more plainly.
“And if I were?” Nikita’s eyes scan his face — colder now, assessing in a way that makes Varka subconsciously straighten his back.
“Then I’d say it sounds like you care about him,” Varka says, evenly.
“I do.” There’s a firm sense of finality to his voice that leaves no room for argument. “And if you care about him too, you’ll keep in mind what I said.”
Their meeting ends there, with Nikita having nothing further to say on the matter. Varka quietly says his goodbyes and heads back into the salt-kissed air, mind racing more furiously than the tides.
Nikita’s words had been clear — and his protectiveness, unmistakable. Varka is well aware Nikita’s worry is not for him — he worries about Flins having to mourn for an ephemeral human rather than about a human falling for a fae’s trickery. It’s not as if he doesn’t appreciate Nikita’s attempt to spare Flins the heartache.
And yet, Varka thinks, shouldn’t Flins have some say in the matter?
His heart sinks when he sees the familiar gleam of Favonius armor waiting for him by the inn. To have caught up with them so quickly means they must have set out not long after Varka had.
They report the Abyssal activity is spiking faster than expected — and that someone appears to be controlling it. The rest of the squadron is on the way with their supplies; they’re to depart for Armsvartnir as soon as they’re able, with no time to return to Nasha Town.
Nikita’s words still hound him, but duty leaves him little time to dwell.
But when Illuga comes to see them off, he sees a chance to get more information; the key to deciding his exchange with the Starshyna.
“Illuga,” he says, aiming for casual. “Just a random question. How do Flins and your father get along?”
“Why, they write all the time,” Illuga replies. If he sees anything odd in the question, it doesn’t show on his face. “He worries about Mr. Flins being lonely at the lighthouse. It’s why I try to drop by whenever I can, to drop off supplies and check on him. It’s actually a relief you’ve been able to befriend him! Normally he doesn’t warm up to strangers so easily.”
“Right,” Varka says, stomach sinking. Whatever Flins has been writing about, it’s given Nikita the entirely wrong idea.
Or, he has to admit to himself, the entirely right idea. Embarrassing as his little drunken stunt in the alleyway had been, it’s still unmistakable evidence that his attraction to Flins is mutual.
But at the very least, he feels like he’s finally solved the puzzle; he knows why Flins seems to edge so close to closing the gap between them only to shy away once it becomes too real.
He already knows what to do; all he has to do first is survive the trip out and back again.
—
When Varka returns from Armsvartnir, things go to hell, and fast.
He barely even made it back alive only to find Rerir beat him to it, and the Wild Hunt had grown completely out of control. In the chaos that ensues — the skirmishes, the strategy meetings, the allies new and old alike — there’s no room for his long overdue conversation with Flins.
They do sneak a quiet moment together, just one. In it, Varka says too much — though he hadn’t expected Flins to simply not deny it. But the flurry of activity resumes again right after, and he tries to put all thoughts aside until the battle is won.
Not that it’s easy, sidelined with his injuries as he is.
It’s not until the day after their celebratory feast — after he bids Albedo and Durin a fond farewell — that he’s able to make another trek out to the lighthouse. A storm threatens overhead as he walks, which he hopes isn’t any sort of omen. He’s still only half-healed — his run in with Rerir having taken more out of him than he’d ever admit — but none of it matters right now. He ignores the ache in his side as he climbs the familiar slope, driven by something stronger than weather or pain.
He half expects the door to be locked, but it ushers him in with a rusted whine.
Flins is waiting for him in the main room, as if he’d known the moment Varka would arrive. His coat is off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and his hair still damp from the sea mist; he must have just returned from tending the graves.
The open door behind Varka paints Flins’s face in pale and shifting shadows. For a moment, Varka can believe Illuga’s stories of the capricious, monstrous fae — before the light vanishes with the movement of the clouds, dispelling the illusion.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Flins says, voice flat.
Varka lets the door fall shut behind him. “Good to see you, too. You missed a great party last night.”
“I mean it.” Flins strides partway across the room, then seems to think better of it, stopping behind one of the armchairs. The slightest bit of frustration slips through his composure. “You’re still healing. You should be resting.”
“Bah, I’ve rested enough.” He steps closer, his boots dripping seawater onto the floor. “If I sit still any longer I might go insane. Besides,” he adds, “I think we have a discussion to continue.”
“I don’t know what you mean. We each have our leverage,” he says, leaning on the word to the point it no longer feels like the joke it had been just a day ago. “What more do you need?”
Varka takes another cautious step, as if he’s afraid Flins will bolt if he makes the wrong move. “Then maybe we have two discussions to pick up. That, and… something about regrets.”
Flins’s hands tighten on the back of the chair in front of him. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
Something in his tone gives Varka pause. It’s guarded and brittle. He studies the stern set of Flins’s face. “Don’t I?”
“You place too much trust in me,” Flins says, voice edged with steel. “Whatever you seem to think I am, you’re wrong. I’m not human. I’m not safe. I’m something that shouldn’t — ”
“You think I don’t know that?” Varka cuts him off with quiet certainty, taking another step closer. When Flins falters, he takes the opportunity to continue. “I had some interesting chats with Illuga and Nikita about Snezhnayan myths. I put it together from there.”
There’s a long silence. The storm claws at the walls above, and the blue flame of the lantern sputters as if to match its master’s distress. Flins’s voice, when it finally comes, is barely above a whisper. “Then you know what it means. Why I can’t —”
“— why you won’t,” Varka corrects gently.
Flins’s expression cracks. For the first time, he looks tired — not fragile, but ancient and weary, as though he’s struggled with this same scenario a thousand lifetimes over. It’s not unlike the look Barbatos gets when he thinks no one is watching him. “You don’t understand,” he insists. “People like you — you burn so bright, and then you’re gone. And what’s left for me is an eternity of ash.”
Varka closes the last of the distance between them. “You’re not immortal; you could die first, for all we know. If all we get is a moment, then we make it count. Besides, I’m uniquely experienced at being a companion to the long-lived.”
Flins shakes his head. “If I can’t convince you to spare me the pain,” he tries again, “then allow me to convince you to spare yourself. I’m dangerous. If you stay near me —”
“I’ll be right where I was meant to be.”
The silence draws as tight as a bowstring between them. “If you stay near me,” Flins starts over as if Varka hadn’t spoken, leaning on the words, “I will be driven to keep you, to claim you. I don’t make a habit of parting with what is mine, but I cannot leave my duty here. You deserve to be free.”
“You don’t have to cage the wind to have it by your side,” Varka murmurs, bringing his palm between them and channeling a miniature vortex of Anemo before letting it fade away. “And it will always come back to you.”
“And if that isn’t enough?”
“It’ll have to be.” Varka’s words are blunt, but he softens it with a grin. “And when it comes back, it will bring with it stories and delicacies from around the world, and keep you warm as you sleep.”
“I don’t eat,” Flins says, lips set stubbornly in what Varka is tempted to call a pout. It’s adorable. “I don’t need warmth, nor sleep as you do.”
“It’ll bring stories and trinkets,” Varka amends, and Flins huffs.
“You’re a fool, Varka.”
“If I am, then I’d be your fool.”
Something flickers in Flins’s gaze at that; something fragile, terrified, and yet underneath it all — hungry. Varka reaches a hand toward his face, letting his thumb trace the cool curve of his cheek. “You’re not subtle, are you?” Flins says, a faint hint of exasperation in his voice.
“Subtlety has never suited me,” Varka replies, letting his hand fall away. “I find honesty gets better results.”
Flins’s laugh is soft and bitter, like the sea dashing across the rocks. “Honesty,” he echoes. “You’ll regret offering that to me. You think you will always be able to look at me and not see the monster from the stories, but you don’t know what will happen if I stop pretending.”
“Someone once told me,” Varka says, tilting his head just so, “that not all fae are slaves to their instincts.”
Flins’s eyes narrow, glinting like a blade catching the light. “And that someone should have also warned you not to test that theory.”
“What,” Varka asks, teasing, “afraid you’ll prove him right?”
Flins’s composure fractures into something darker — a spark of that ancient, inhuman danger peeking through. “I bite,” he warns, the words rolling low and quiet.
Now if that doesn’t send a shiver down Varka’s spine. Maybe it’s a little messed up, but he has to be to think this is a good idea — and he’s increasingly convinced this is the best idea he’s ever had.
“Promise?” Varka says, smiling — a wolfish little grin that would infuriate anyone else but only makes Flins look more undone.
“You…” Flins breathes, voice shaking just enough to betray the war in him. “You don’t understand what you’re inviting.”
“I might not,” Varka admits, “but I trust you to choose what you want to be — not what you were made to be.”
It lands like a gauntlet thrown. For a heartbeat, the room holds still, the air thick with something primal, as old as the seas outside. Then Flins moves, sudden and fluid, crossing the narrow space between them as if he’s afraid he might stop if he thinks about it. His hands grip Varka by the collar, and for one searing instant it’s unclear whether he means to kiss him or tear him apart.
He does both — or maybe neither. Varka meets him halfway, the clash somehow both question and answer. It’s too fierce to be tender, too desperate to be cruel. There’s a sharp sting at his lip of a fang catching on skin before he tastes copper. The recklessness of it makes him feel almost boyish, and all it does is make him smile into the kiss. Varka’s hand finds Flins’s jaw, thumb tracing soothing lines against the skin there, and slowly the moment bleeds into something softer, more tame.
When they part, Varka’s breath puffs against Flins’s spit-slick lips, quick and uneven.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Flins whispers, as if he hadn’t just been an equal and enthusiastic participant. “Now I’ll never want to let you go.”
Varka chuckles, the sound low and warm in his chest as the giddiness threatens to overwhelm him. “You’ll have to. I can’t be one of your treasures, but I will always come back.”
Flins closes his eyes, the tension and exhaustion in his face softening into something like surrender. “You make dangerous promises, Grand Master.”
“I only make promises I intend to keep,” he murmurs back, depositing kisses across Flins’s cheeks and down toward the corner of his lips.
They linger in the hush that follows, foreheads pressed together. Varka exhales a shaky laugh, brushing his thumb along Flins’s jaw.
“All right,” he says, his voice still rough from the kiss, “before I find out more from second-hand myths, is there anything else I should know?”
Flins looks thoughtful for a moment, the slightest crease forming between his brows. “… Possibly,” he says at last, and that careful pause makes Varka’s brows raise.
“Possibly?”
“The body you see isn’t… precisely me.” His gaze flicks somewhere off to the side and back. “It is, and it isn’t.”
“I did hear something along those lines,” Varka muses, excitement stirring in his chest with the thought that Flins might share his true form already. “About shapeshifting or casting glamours.”
“I don’t know that I’d call it either of those.” His eyes focus again on something out of sight, and this time Varka turns his head to follow his gaze. The only thing there is the old lantern, its blue flame burning bright, dancing in an unseen wind.
Varka blinks. Then blinks again. “You’re telling me your real self is the lantern?”
“The flame,” Flins corrects mildly. “Though the lantern is my preferred spot for a bit of repose.”
It takes a moment for the realization to sink in — and when it does, Varka’s face goes through stages of dawning horror to reluctant amusement. “Hold on,” he says, chuckling hoarsely, “so that morning, when I grabbed the lantern to go looking for you outside —”
“Yes,” Flins says, eyes twinkling.
“I was carrying you?”
Flins graces him with a small, infuriating smile. “You were.”
Varka groans, dragging a hand down his face, hiding his growing flush behind it. “Archons above. I was swinging you around like a damn torch!”
“You were quite gentle,” Flins corrects, not unkindly. “If it eases your conscience, I didn’t mind being carried.”
Varka drops his hand enough to shoot him a wicked grin. “Didn’t mind, huh?”
Before Flins can formulate a response, Varka catches him by the waist and hugs him close, laughing as he lifts him clear off the ground and spins in a dizzying circle that makes Flins sputter in startled protest. “There, now I’ve carried you in both forms.”
“Varka!” Flins’s indignation breaks on a helpless laugh, bright and clear against his ear.
When Varka finally sets him down, he’s breathless, his bruised ribs ache, and Flins’s expression is caught between exasperation and affection. “Are you quite finished?” he manages, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him.
“For now,” Varka says, still holding him close. His body heat is slowly being sapped by the cold thing in his arms. His voice softens. “You see? You’re no monster, Flins. You’re just — ” he pauses, casting around for the right word — “you.”
Flins looks up at him for a long, unguarded moment. The flicker of his fire in the lantern reflects in his eyes, and for a fraction of a moment it seems to shroud part of his face entirely. Then it passes, leaving only a steady gleam, warm and alive. “You have a dangerous talent for making this sound like a good idea.”
“Then I’ll just have to keep doing it until you realize that it is,” he says, leaning in to bring their lips together once more.
The winds howl outside, sweeping over the cliff and rattling the door, but in the hollowed heart of the lighthouse, everything is still. For that brief, impossible moment, time feels suspended — the storm, the wars, the centuries waiting beyond the door — all held at bay by the gravity between them.
No promises of forever, no illusions of safety; only this fragile peace, and the quiet certainty that the wind will always find its way home.