Archive of Our Own

The night is so dark that when Illuga finally makes it to Nasha Town, a package clutched tightly in his arms, the city looks like a tiny moon in the distance. It reminds him of the Lighthouse at Piramida, even though their methods of warding off the Wild Hunt are just a tad too different to truly compare.

Closer to the city, where the winter air's chill bites far less at his cheeks and the safety of the town chases away the anxiety in his heart from yesterday’s sleep being disrupted by a violent nightmare, he swears he can hear the light. 

Every lamp has long since been lit, the kuuvahki in them buzzing with the kind of hum he'd first associated with crackling fire and Moonglow Fireflies. Everywhere that the light shines, it reflects off of the scrap metal floor and buildings like moonlight on ocean waves. It makes the place look so bright, he thinks as he walks past the entrance gate where a young man hollers warnings that are advertisements in disguise, maybe it'd cheer everyone back at Headquarters up if we did something like this, with all the colors.

It might cheer Sir Flins up some too, if we can get the light at the graveyard working again, Illuga thinks, waving hello to an off-duty Lightkeeper who walks past him to get outside. Radimir, he thinks. Flins hadn’t been home earlier in the evening, but when he goes back to check again after his delivery is done, he's going to ask about the light. Determination makes his steps a little lighter. 

That’s the thing with the guy, though. Flins can be so mysterious, always disappearing whenever he wants to, and it's sort of infuriating - but Illuga’s curiosity burns as bright as his lantern when the answer is dangled just out of his reach. 

He needs to figure him out. It’s too tempting not to try.

Then again, how does he ask someone like him, who lives all alone and chases off most visitors with his charm, if he misses the gleam of the busiest places in Nod-Krai? It’s the sort of thing you have to think over before you try. The further he gets into Nasha Town, the more voices reach his ears, and the louder the drinking songs from the Flagship sound. 

There's drunken people discussing on the street, someone chasing down an unruly child, and vendors with smiles on their faces. Politely and carefully, he decides, that's the best option, watching as a tomato is dropped suddenly on the shoddy metal and splatters into a mess of juice. Yikes.

He steps carefully over the remnants of the thing - there's nothing fragile in the package, as far as he knows, but tomato all over your reports isn't fun - and stops dead in his tracks when he sees the ten person line to the post 'office'. It isn't an office at all, and really only functions as such because it's where you go to drop things off that need to be sent somewhere when you don't have the time to do it yourself and no friend to do it for you. It’s why Illuga delivers most things by himself.

Nikita told him once as a child that the system only worked so smoothly because the owner built up trust with the people of Nod-Krai. He'd always been confused at that, when he'd been young and struggled with life outside Piramida as much as he did with life inside it. As an adult, he was just impressed. It was the kind of thing that really encapsulated the spirit of Nod-Krai itself, at its best and its worst. Lawless, but not without rules.

Right now, though, that trust was a problem, because it meant a queue so long that processing might take two hours, and that was about the time it took for him to make the walk back to the lighthouse graveyard.

A sigh leaves his lips as he weaves through the crowd between him and the long line, squeezing the package closer to his chest so he doesn't get in the way. Nasha Town is more crowded than Piramida ever has been, and he hasn't even been to the harbor in a few months. The Lightkeepers are off on missions so often that sometimes the only folks around are the logistics squad. Maybe a visiting merchant or two. Here, people flock around on both sides of him, all as colorful as the lights of the town itself. 

It's really only due to his habitual wariness that Illuga notices the hand reaching for him.

He leans away on instinct, dodging before he even realizes why he's dodging. Just in case. It's an invaluable skill when fighting, but the Ratnik in front of him looks horribly apologetic when he sees the frown on his face.

"Squad Leader Illuga!" Lushne says, face pale and his hand raised between them. Bandaged. Huh. Illuga blinks, and a smile settles on his face. It's just Lushne, who isn't going to harm a fly, and his mentor Sukhovykh shaking his head behind him. He maneuvers the package into the crook of his elbow, and watches another person join the line. It can wait, if someone needs his help first. Any good Ratnik has time for their comrades.

"Lushne, Sukhovykh, good evening," he says, and gets an awkward mix of a wave and salute in response. His chest warms at the sight. "Have the both of you been well?"

Sukhovykh’s face warps into a grimace. His student’s eyes widen, mouth opening before he’s interrupted—

"Lushne tried to make friends with the Black-Barrel Hag." 

Illuga fights to keep the smile on his face, eyes widening despite his best attempts. Hiljetta's the old lady his old man told him stories about to keep him inside at night. The Wild Hunt was one thing, he said, but Hiljetta was what the Wild Hunt ran from. Sometimes she still manages to show up in his nightmares, frequent and dark as they are. Lushne blushes at the comment, deflating so fast that he's reminded of the tomato on the ground just a few paces away. All red and sad and droopy.

"When we make mistakes, that means we can learn from them," Illuga tries, fighting to make his voice even, and Sukhovykh sighs, but nods. "Even if it doesn't feel that way at the moment, you've got a lesson under your belt about how things aren't always what they seem to be, and neither of you got hurt."

Lushne looks significantly less like a kicked puppy now, so he continues, bumping his free hand over his chest. "That's a win in my books, and I'm sure Sukhovykh realizes it was only because you've got a good heart."

"Right..." Lushne murmurs, a little shy, and straightens up when Sukhovykh puts a hand on his shoulder. The smile feels more natural on Illuga’s face now, especially when both of the Ratniki mirror it. Now he can deliver his package without worry in his heart, even if the line has risen to the remarkable count of fifteen people. He can already tell he is going to be stuck in Nasha Town until three in the morning.

Before he can say his goodbyes, Lushne clears his throat. "Actually, Squad Leader, I wanted to ask if you were looking for Flins?"

"Sort of, yeah," Illuga shrugs, even as he maneuvers the package so it's held in both arms. He tilts his head toward the line with a rueful smile. "But I'm here to deliver a package on the old man's behalf first and foremost, so Mr. Flins might have to wait a while."

"That is a pity, but patience is indeed a virtue..."

Illuga jumps out of his skin, the package going flying before he scrambles to catch it, and he just about manages to see the look of surprise on his fellow Ratniki's faces before he nearly falls to the ground. One arm sticks out at an awkward angle, and it's a testament to how many hours he's spent balancing on cliff edges while keeping watch that he doesn't trip over in the end. 

 "...I am quite sure that this friend of yours won't mind such dedication one bit."

He whips around with force, reports saved from their fate of being dropped in the middle of a crowd, and comes face to face with Flins, who blends in with the town around them like a ghost in the night. Illuga's sigh is strangled by his confusion. Usually people don't sneak up on him at all, and not for lack of trying. It's yet another mystery to add to the count, and much like the line, it just isn't getting any smaller. Flins smiles down at him, narrow eyes meeting his own.

"You're always doing this trick of showing up without a sound," Illuga says, and Flins doesn't even flinch at the accusation. "At least this way I can give you the next mission details immediately."

“You look quite tired,” he responds, ignoring the comment about the mission, pale eyes drifting past him and onto Lushne and Sukhovykh. One of them coughs. Illuga looks back and sees that Lushne has scooted away. He offers him a reassuring smile before turning back. It’s easy for him to forget that Flins can be intimidating to new recruits. “Have you been busier than usual?”

“Not more than anyone else, I’d say. That’s why the old man tasked me with delivering this.”

Illuga holds up the package so Flins can get a good look. The reports for him are stashed in a pocket instead, since he’d expected to go see him individually. Nightmares have no place in cheerful conversation, and he’s not exhausted. All Ratniki look tired, anyway, because they always have to be on guard. It’s in the job description. “I’m pleased to hear it, Illuga. Does that perhaps mean you have the time for a short detour?”

Flins leans closer as he speaks. Illuga looks at the line, now twenty people long, and then at Lushne and Sukhovykh. Usually he spends longer talking to the Ratniki he meets, but they seem pretty fine on their own. They were a good pair. His old pops made the right choice there. He weighs the options, then nods. “Yes, that’d be fine. Lushne, Sukhovykh, good evening, and be careful.”

He waves a short goodbye to the other two, and they send him off with shared well-wishes and a bid to greet the old man for them. Flins says his farewells, then starts to walk away, and Illuga clutches the package close as he follows.

Behind them, Lushne and Sukhovykh look at each other with shared confusion. Lushne, a new recruit, opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “...Is that normal for colleagues in the Lightkeepers, sir?”

Sukhovykh sighs.

—

Halfway into the crowd again, Flins stops, and Illuga tilts his head in confusion. Flins places a gloved hand to his chest, then raises the other up toward him, palm up. Beside them, people pass by, keeping a surprising distance for such a busy place.

“The line was quite long today, was it not?”

Illuga raises an eyebrow, and feels suddenly like he can hear the gears inside of Flins’ head turning. He clutches the package a little closer, and watches as yellow eyes drift from his face to his hands. Is this about getting out of reports again? It’s not as if he’s not a great Ratnik, in his opinion, he’s just bad at sending things back to headquarters. It’s one of the reasons why he visits. He’d feel awful if Flins was caught unaware because of his isolated posting.

“Though of course, I heard mention that you came by earlier today—”

“You were listening that long?”

“—And you took the time to encourage young Lushne, with little care as to your own business.”

“You would have done so as well, I know that. What sort of request comes with this kind of flattery, sir?”

Flins’ smile is calculated, and Illuga’s responding sigh is louder than he intended. He has a tendency to win these sorts of discussions without even letting the other party realize a battle was happening. Quick as lighting, really. Illuga knows because he’s seen it happen countless times, heard the old man grumble about it once or twice, and been the victim himself when he was just starting to figure him out.

“Could you perhaps deliver that package tomorrow, Young Master? Our postman is sure to be awfully busy, with how many requests have come as of late.”

Illuga furrows his brow. The nickname is incessant and makes no sense no matter how many times he asks about it. Outside of that, though… Flins has a point, and if it comes to it, he’d rather just make the long trek or lend a boat to deliver everything himself than make everyone else do the work for him. It’s just reports, usually he hands them out on his own anyway. The postman shouldn’t have to go all the way to Piramida.

“...Alright, I suppose. I don’t want to make more work for him, he’s stressed enough as it is.”

Flins’ upturned palm stays where it is, though. Determined as ever to get what he wants, Illuga supposes - but didn’t he just get it?

“You have my gratitude. Now, since you’ve agreed to two whole requests of mine already, could I at the very least lift your burden for now?”

He can’t help the little laugh, punched out as Flins waits patiently for him to hand over the ‘burden’ in his arms. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” he says, voice tinged with amusement and no small bit of exasperation. “Carrying it myself isn’t as huge a task as you make it sound, you know.”

“Then why not let me?”

Flins’ hand stays right there, no sign of it being a joke, his eyes narrowed into a stare so impossibly fond it makes the air feel all tense. The crowd keeps having to walk around them, and that’s what makes him decide. Fine. It’s not that big a deal. He’s not handing over the task of being a squad leader or anything like that.

Illuga waits for a few seconds more, to let Flins have a taste of his own medicine, and hands over the package with far less shame weighing him down than he expects. A shared burden is a halved burden, he remembers Nikita saying once, even if it’s just carrying the reports back to the lighthouse.

—

The sugar sculpture stand always gathers children and tourists alike, but this late at night, there’s few customers. Flins’ strides are slow and steady, and Illuga can’t help but wonder if he’s keeping by his side on purpose, even as he raises a hand to greet the lady who runs the shop. There’s a thing he’s never understood; why Flins is warm enough that he feels better just standing next to him in the winter weather.

Hunajatta always keeps a lit lantern near the booth, and it makes the sculptures seem luminescent. Light is a sign of safety in a land like Nod-Krai, but Nasha Town and Piramida never fail to remind him of the warmth and beauty it can bring as well. Everything is worth it to protect these people who treasure the light.

Flins hums beside him, eyes narrowed, and smiles gently. Focused on him rather than the booth. Illuga tilts his head away. “People have been asking about your favorite foods, Mr. Flins,” he says, watching the way the lantern turns every shade of sugar into something childish and bright. 

“That is an unusual question for someone to ask, I must say,” he murmurs, seeming rather unfazed. “I hesitate to assume anything, of course, but may I ask if it comes from the curiosity of anyone in particular?”

He can feel Flins’ stare on his cheek. His own is resolutely focused on the booth.

“A little bird was the one who asked, if you can believe it.”

Another thing that has always been odd to him is how Flins has such pristine skin for such a seasoned warrior. How he breathes so shallowly despite his health. For Illuga, it’s hard not to worry the most about those who show the least signs of battle and fatigue. It’s difficult to notice when they start to crack under the weight of it all. He’ll ask whatever questions necessary to remind him that he wants him safe - and he’s curious, too, he won’t deny that.

Illuga looks back at him, and finds that he’s smiling. He returns it without even realizing.

“Yes, Young Master, I do believe I can.”

Flins leans forward, says something to Hunajatta in a low and soft tone, and plucks a sculpture from the top row. It’s bright red and orange, hues so strong that they’re barely transparent, even when he holds them in front of the light. A nightingale with a backdrop reminiscent of a lantern’s shape, or like the earring he’s had long before a time he can remember. 

There’s a scratch down the side of it, highlighted by how perfectly shiny the rest of the sculpture is. Flins puts it into Illuga’s hand carefully, folding his warm fingers tight around his own, then lets go. Every time he’s felt them, Flins’ hands have been as hot as fire. At first he was worried about him running a fever. He never seemed sick, though.

Sugar sculptures, then, he thinks, a tad smug. That’s what he likes, outside of the liquor.

Flins’ voice is sweet when he speaks, and Illuga swallows, the frown on his face more wonder than anything. His thoughts still drift toward the warmth that seeps through his gloves. “Much like a gemstone, sculptures such as these can tell a story by virtue of their scratches alone. It’s rather charming.”

“...I wasn’t aware they had bird sculptures here that weren’t Ibises.”

“Inspiration can strike an artist whenever it so pleases, Young Master. I suspect the nightingale is particularly worthy of admiration in a land such as ours. You would know, for you bring honor to the symbol yourself.”

He sighs, all too used (but never quite enough to go unaffected, he thinks) to the flattery that makes his chest feel all light and fluttery, and turns back to the stand with the sculpture clutched in his hand. First Flins offered to carry the package for him all the way back to the lighthouse cemetery, and now he’s handing out treats like he’s a devotee of the Moon Goddess.

No, Illuga can’t have that, and especially not when he’s just gotten a clue about one of his many secrets. A favorite treat might seem small, but it’s big to him. He’ll remember it for future supply runs. He focuses on the sculptures with such intent that he can hear Hunajatta chuckling. In the corner, on the bottom row, between oranges and reds and yellows, there’s a little purple thing hidden in the dark. It lures him like a siren song.

“Miss Hunajatta, I’ll pay for us both,” he murmurs as he pulls it out with his free hand and ignores Flins’ protest about hospitality and rare occasions and having promised to pay already.

The lantern sculpture is colorful like the rest, but somehow feels somber, and Illuga wonders if it might have a bitter aftertaste. It’s just like Flins, in a way, sweet but lonely enough to make him worry despite every attempt at dissuading him. The sugar is pristine, though. It’s so shiny when taken out of the back that it almost hurts his eyes. Candy like this is fit for a noble, though neither of them hold a title.

“Hospitality is something to be returned by the guest, you know? So please accept it for my conscience’s sake, at least.” He says, murmuring the last part with worry that pitches his tone low. “You’re well hydrated, in your own way, but I hope you remember to eat.”

Illuga hands it over and watches as Flins stares, pale eyes drifting from his face to the offering. He can see the moment he gives up, because his shoulders fall just a little and the smile on his face makes him look like something out of an old painting, all soft around the edges. With the package in one hand, he takes the lantern sculpture in the other, and bows halfway.

“I must give you my thanks, Young Master. Do you think perhaps a game of cards back at the lighthouse would suffice?”

“Would it be too much for me to ask you to finish the story from my last visit, sir?”

Illuga licks the edge of the sculpture, careful of the sharp points, and passes the money over to Hunajatta with a friendly smile. She shakes her head good-naturedly, her gaze knowing though he can’t quite tell about what. Flins’ eyes don’t stray from him, even as he waves his farewell to the shopkeeper as well.

Even when they reach the exit gate, his mouth still tastes of honey and flowers.

—

Outside of Nasha Town, Nod-Krai is dark and dreary, lit up only by kuuvahki plants and the moonlight. The sculptures are long-gone, and only the lingering feeling of stickiness on his tongue remains. Flins had asked him to taste a bit of his own, and he’d agreed only if he did as well. There was something a bit sour in his. Maybe it was the intensity of Flins’ stare.

The darkness makes his shoulders tense. Watchfulness in bad weather and on moonless nights has long since been ingrained into his very bones. Northern Nod-Krai is even foggier, starless at times. A flame or lamp can be your only way to navigate. To stay safe. He hoists his lantern up since Flins’ hands are occupied, and gets a hum of approval in response. 

The shine is bright even with Aedon keeping to himself. He has a tendency to do what he wants to do when he wants to do it, though he’s always endlessly reliable should danger come. His absence makes Illuga breathe a little easier - if there was an issue, he’d be at his side in a blink.

As they walk, they pass by the occasional sign of battles. Abandoned swords, merchant bags long since raided. Wild Hunt nests can be hard to find for most. The attacks come as a surprise. But Illuga swears he can hear them before they erupt, sometimes. It’s a rumbling, gravelly sound, yet piercingly loud and high. The kind of noise that makes animals run and Mandragora hide away.

Tonight is silent as the grave, and while that descriptor comes with fear for many, it brings only relief for him.

The path to the lighthouse cemetery is long and rough even on the best of days, but he moves fast despite his lack of sleep. Flins keeps up easily, tall as he is. Every so often they discuss how the Lightkeepers at Piramida are doing - Alyosha got suspended for intoxication, Lyubertsi has had to put up a note warning against fraud, which makes Flins stifle a laugh, and Inga has been put on chore duty - to catch each other up, but the rest of the journey is quiet.

That, perhaps, is why it comes as such a surprise when a rumble rings out, and the stone beneath them crackles dangerously. Illuga swings the lantern down to see if it’s the Wild Hunt, but finds only that the ground is crumbling into the very obvious, very large hole just in front of it. His heart shoots into his throat, watching as rocks start to plummet echo into the empty night air.

As he scrambles back, a strangled shout leaves him, panicked at a danger he didn’t notice - but Flins is already falling.

He reaches for him with his free hand, leaning too far forward, and grasps nothing but air and something burning so hot it’s cold. A bird calls in the distance. Then, there’s no solid ground beneath his feet, and shortly after that, there’s nothing at all.

—

Everything hurts.

Illuga’s shoulders ache, his knees sting despite the pads, and his hands are scraped badly enough that his gloves seem ruined. The world in front of him is dark, illuminated by sparse moonlight that glints against bloodied stone. His body feels warm. Something soft surrounds him, and for a moment, he wonders if the worst has happened - have they landed in a Wild Hunt nest, but not yet been torn apart? Has Flins taken the worst of the fall for him, and been deathly injured, and he’ll be helpless to do anything but watch?

He reaches for whatever it is that cradles him with panicked hands, sitting up so fast that his head spins. Cool metal pricks his bleeding hands, and something study holds him up when he clutches his head. It smells like coal, ozone, and the ocean’s breeze. Comforting and familiar.

“How are you feeling, Young Master?”

He doesn’t even think about answering how he feels, too glad to hear Flins’ voice to do anything but proclaim it. He’s alive.

“Thank goodness, you’re alright!”

Illuga’s sigh is one of pure relief, trying to turn his head to Flins’ and finding little other than the darkness around them. He glides a hand down where he’s pretty sure his arms are, then his chest, and holds the back of his hand to what he eventually decides is Flins’ forehead. Too warm, as always.

There’s nothing wet there, and no tears in his clothes, which means no blood or injuries so obvious that they can be seen in the darkness, or felt with a quick search, and— now that he’s thinking about it, he’s fairly sure that he’s sitting on his lap, so that means his legs should be alright as well. He can’t stop the smile from rising to his face, brows furrowed into something tight and worried. A lack of injuries is a mercy that a Ratnik is rarely given.

His own injuries, from what he can feel (experience tells him he can walk on a twisted ankle, anyway) aren’t serious either. Just scrapes, aches, and the barest hint of dizziness. Anxiety claws at him as the dark creeps further in, but that’s nothing he can’t deal with. Illuga has fought his way through a forest with no-one but Aedon at his side. 

They’re both alive, and that means it’ll be alright. He’s just not sure he can believe that.

Flins’ voice breaks his thoughts, close to his ear. “I do believe we were fortunate, in this case,” he says, and Illuga nods. Realizes where he is in more ways than one, and crawls off of his comrade with more haste than he’d like to give thought to. Everyone has held someone through their worst moments, he thinks, and stuffs down the clear lack of injuries on his person into the back of his mind. His hands are nothing in comparison to what he’s had before.

“No Wild Hunt presence? How long was I out for?” Illuga asks, narrowing his eyes to figure out where his lamp has fallen. It’s hardy, but… He’d like to make sure they have light to guide their way out, and Flins’ single lantern isn’t always enough against the Wild Hunt, if they show up.

“None indeed, and for barely a moment.”

That’s good. Getting knocked out for long periods is risky at best. It’s the kind of injury that can keep a Lightkeeper off the job for the rest of their life. Illuga swallows his nerves before he asks, just in case he missed anything.

“What a relief. I checked, but you know your body best. Are you injured?”

He can hear Flins rummaging behind him, and soon enough he’s pulled out the lantern he keeps at his hip, burning bright blue and flaring with the movement. He still can’t quite figure out the reason behind the color difference. Every other lantern he’s seen amongst his fellow Ratniki shines bright yellow. Then again, Flins collects oddities all the time. He gestures for him to come closer, and shine the light past the both of them.

“No, I’m perfectly alright.”

Illuga spots his lantern huddled against the side of the tiny cavern they’ve landed in, and now that there’s light, it’s clear to see that this hole has been here a while - and that it’s a danger for any passersby, considering the rockslide. They’ll need to put up a sign. He makes for the lantern, but a hand on his arm stops him. 

Flins grabs his hands, pulling them up closer, and his eyes fall to his palms, scratched raw. The blue firelight makes his frown look deeper than he thinks it really is. Now that there’s light, Illuga can see where his bloody hands have smeared onto Flins’ chest. The silver is coated in red. The lantern’s glow makes it all shine equally.

“We should bandage your hands before we do anything else,” he says, and Illuga wants to insist on getting out first. They’re in a hole in the middle of Nod-Krai with no-one else any wiser, after all, but that in itself is why he hesitantly nods. If Flins thinks he’s of no use because his poor little hands hurt… Ugh, he can’t even stomach the thought, or the lessons on infection risks that Nikita has knocked into him long ago. He’s strong enough to manage with worse injuries, but people have a habit of worrying too much over him, in his opinion.

At least he’s got bandages. It’s unexpected situations like this that have taught him to always carry medical supplies. You never know when a battle will arise, or someone will be injured. Work accidents, training incidents, unexpected intruders. It’s all a risk.

Illuga shoves his bleeding hand in his coat pocket, and digs out the bandages buried amongst emergency rations and a flare. Just in case. Flins’ hands are far gentler as he takes them, carefully peeling off the tattered gloves first - they’ve got no water to rinse the scratches with, but that can be done once they’re out. 

For now, their focus has to be on making the situation better in whatever small ways they can. That’s how fighting the Wild Hunt has always worked, anyway.

Flins wraps the cloth around Illuga’s palm with practiced movements, tight without cutting off any circulation. He wonders if he’s wrapped anyone else’s wounds before, or if he’s always had to wrap his own. When he looks at him, his lips are a thin, focused line. He always looks somber, he thinks, but it’s rare that he feels that way, too. Illuga wants to tell him not to worry, but it’s not quite fair to ask that. Not now, at least.

Flins’ fingers splay against the back of his hands where he holds his wrist still, and when he switches to wrap the other, the warmth lingers like having warmed them in front of a fireplace. It isn’t hard to realize that he's tall, but like this, the difference between them is glaringly obvious. He’s glad he’s never been one to be intimidated by size. Flins' hands are far larger than his own, fingers long and lanky.

“Now,” Flins starts with a small smile, letting go of his wrist and watching as he tests the bandages. He’s good at this, Illuga thinks. “You’ll be far more comfortable if we have to climb our way out, I believe.”

He hands him the remnants of the glove, and Illuga shoves them back in his pocket - not the one where he puts the rest of the bandage roll. Cross-contamination is as real a threat as the Wild Hunt! Nikita yells in the back of his head, and he dutifully ignores him. That’s the kind of thing he’ll think over once they’re out of here, and his old pops is around to scold him.

Illuga turns around to search again, and this time, there’s no stopping him as he picks up his lantern to examine it for damage. 

The outside is scratched, and the glass looks like it’ll need to be polished and cleaned once they’re out - but other than that, it’s relatively fine. He bumps it and the light turns on, so internal damage is ruled out. Another relief. There’s been so many since they fell. He feels too lucky, like the other shoe is about to drop. It always does.

Lit up by two lanterns, it’s clear that the hole is extraordinarily small for the average cavern within Nod-Krai. Looking at it with a clearer mind and better lighting, Illuga isn’t even sure that it’s large enough that Flins could lay down in it. Height wise, it looked pretty tall, but not enough that he thought it an impossible climb. Easier with the proper equipment, obviously, but a Ratnik could never afford to be choosy.

“Young Master?” 

Illuga looks back, and finds Flins with the package in his hands, so banged up he’s sure the old man is going to scream. A report sticks out, half-ruined. He isn’t sure that he’s not gonna do it, either. Somehow he manages not to.

“Ah.”

“My sincerest apologies, but I fear your delivery will have to wait a few days more.”

Flins looks thoroughly unapologetic. As placid as ever, actually. It’s not his fault they fell down a cave, he supposes. Who’d even plan that sort of thing?

“Yeah, it looks like it, Mr. Flins. I think I can remember most of the details, so I’ll just rewrite them when we get back.”

He sighs, rubbing his hands against his eyes for more reasons than the exhaustion that’s begun to settle in. An adrenaline high can only keep you going so long, he knows. Flins’ smile is soft enough when he hears that, that for all his subterfuge and flattery, he can feel the sympathy settle like cool rain on a burn. Soothing and kind.

“I’m sure you’ll manage it without much trouble.”

Illuga’s laugh is short, and it’s silly, but he swears Flins looks a little disappointed. “Right, but we need to get out of here first,” he says, then pauses, looking up at the sliver of night sky still visible. He can feel a plan falling into place. It isn’t the first time he’s had to climb out of a hole, but last time he had a pickaxe and rope. “And put up some sort of warning so we don’t have to rescue a merchant tomorrow.”

“Now, sir,” he blinks up at him, and finds that intense stare hasn’t left him since he first started talking. He swallows, ignores the flutter in his chest. “This isn’t the most creative idea I’ve ever had, but I think if you give me a boost, I can get out of here.”

“Oh?”

Flins’ murmur is interested, head tilted like a curious bird.

Illuga gestures loosely with his lantern toward the ground, then points upward. It’s not the most normal thing to ask of a friend, but it isn’t that strange to ask of a comrade caught in a trap with you. He feels a little nervous anyway. 

“I’d just have to stand on your shoulders, and I think,” he narrows his eyes at Flins, a foot taller than him but thin, and continues. “I’d be able to hoist you up once I’m out.”

Flins glances at the hole’s opening. There’s a few seconds of pause before he nods. His eyes flicker in the firelight, questioning and calm. “I’m curious to see if it’ll work.”

“Please have more faith in me, Mr. Flins.”

“I have nothing but faith in you, Young Master. You’re more than determined enough to get us out of this cavern swiftly.”

Illuga sighs, and Flins squats on the ground before him, knees nearly touching the ground. He tilts his head up at him, looks at him through his lashes, pale yellow eyes on violet gray, his long hair mussed from the fall. Throat pale and striking beneath his dark clothes. Illuga’s cheeks feel hot, and he hopes it isn’t visible, because this is a normal emergency situation, and he hurries to put one boot on his comrade’s shoulder.

It’s hard to find his balance at first, with his lantern in one hand. Climbing on solid rock is far easier. When Flins rises to his feet, he puts his bandaged hands on the stone walls to make sure he won’t fall over to his death. That’d be embarrassing, after all of that praise about believing in his plan.

Illuga can just about see the grass from where he stands on Flins’ shoulders, gloved hands keeping his feet stable, and after throwing his lamp up over, he settles a hand into the dirt. It’s a little too loose. He’s not sure he won’t just come crashing down if he tries to go straight for the edge. Instead he tries to grip an indent in the rock itself, fingers just barely managing to hold on. 

Suddenly, he’s far more thankful that Flins insisted on the bandages. Slipping’s easier when your hands are raw and bloody. Makes it harder to keep your mind focused on the task instead of the pain. It takes grip strength that he’s glad he’s trained for, experience with rock climbing, scrabbling with his feet on the uneven stone, and a little push from Flins to get more momentum, but…

With one harsh shove of his knee over the side, more painful than he’d expected,  Illuga is up and out. Exhaustion hits him like a blow to the chest the moment he no longer has to depend on his strength to keep himself up. 

Flins is still stuck down there, though, and he has to help him. If it doesn’t work, he’ll stay here overnight to make sure he doesn’t get hurt. It’s only reasonable. Nevermind the ache in his arms when someone is at risk.

Then something light smacks him in the back, and he turns around so quickly the dizziness comes right back - a stone? The Wild Hunt? - and there it is, the package, thrown up after him.

“Thank you, Sir Flins,” he calls down into the hole, seeing his pale face somewhere between amused and entirely blank. He leans down, careful not to overextend and fall right back in, and is surprised at the gentleness of Flins’ fingers when they touch his own.

Right, Illuga realizes. Because of the scrapes. But they’re not even that bad.

There’s no need to fuss, so he clutches his hands as tightly as he can, even as his palms burn. When he’s sure of his grip, halfway around Flins’ wrists, he pulls. It’s easier than he expected, and despite what he’s pretty sure is Flins bumping his knees hard into the stone so loudly that it makes Illuga grimace, it takes only a short time until he’s got him back on the ground and Flins dragged halfway onto his lap.

His face lands in his chest. From where he lays, he looks asleep. Exhaustion comes for everyone, Illuga supposes, and he gently pokes his hair to make sure he didn’t actually hurt his knees or anything like that. It’s hard to spot the lamp, though. 

“...You remembered to get your lantern with you as well, right?”

Flins’ smile feels a little too knowing, but it’s gone in the blink of an eye. He sits upright, tilts his head, and says with a tone so sweet it brings back the taste of the sugar sculpture: “Of course. You’re very strong, Master Illuga, it was no problem for me to have it on my person. Dare I say, had the situation been different, you could just as well have picked me up and carried me out.”

Illuga coughs, rolls his eyes, and looks Flins over for injuries again - just in case.

—

The moon is starting to edge toward the other side of the sky, and it’s clear that they’ve been in that damned hole for enough hours that dawn is approaching, but they’re out. It’s such a relief Illuga’s not sure he’s processed it yet.

Flins has shuffled beside him on the ground, breathing far less labored than his own, and the ruined package now lying loosely in his arms. Still holding tight to his promise of carrying it. “That was eventful,” he says, as if he was talking about a particularly unique cloud and not what would’ve been a near-death experience for anyone else. 

Despite trying to keep it in, Illuga’s laughter is loud enough that a bird squawks and flies away in a hurry. He’s so tired that his limbs feel heavy as stone, and blood is visible through the bandages, but everything turned out alright in the end. It was more than he’d dared hope for.

When his amusement has finally died away into little chuckles and he isn’t shaking too hard to see, Illuga finds that Flins is smiling, too.

—

Relief makes Illuga’s steps feel light when he sees the cemetery in the distance. The lighthouse towers against the dark sky, and behind it, Piramida is a blurry shape on the horizon. Flins, for his part, seems no less tired than when they’d fallen down in the first place, and he can tell that their slow pace is dictated solely by his own exhaustion. Taking things slow when needed is important - it’s a basic lesson Nikita taught him long ago - and yet he can’t help but feel as if he should be moving faster. As if he’s causing an inconvenience.

Flins is still carrying the package for him, too. He casts a rueful glance at it. Can’t look at him when he puts a too-warm hand on his shoulder, burning heat comforting even through his thick, insulated coat. The guilt churns. First he didn’t deliver the reports, then he didn’t notice the hole, and now he’s slowing them down when they’re finally on the way home…

“Young Master,” Flins starts, and Illuga clicks his tongue. Why is it only when they’re alone that he uses that name? “There is no need for you to overexert yourself after a day like this. By no means am I bothered, either.”

The loud clanking of the Fatui Research Compound echoes in the distance. He can’t wait for them to reach the lighthouse. It’s isolated, and distant from all of Nod-Krai’s life, which worries him to no end, but it’s also quiet. Far more lively when he comes around, Illuga thinks, because every visit comes with supplies and card games and stories. That’s the least he can do. It’s not such a big deal. Flins’ hand shifts to his back, encouraging him to push on.

“I know, but you’re such a gracious host, I’m not sure you’d say it to my face even if you were.”

The sand under his boots and the shadow of the lighthouse on his face usually makes his body feel light, eager, but now he just feels sleepy. Illuga hopes it isn’t too clear in his voice. The exhaustion and the guilt. Adrenaline can keep him going for a long time, but he has to crash eventually. He just didn’t want to make it obvious.

“You make no demands, and your kindness does you every favor, as the most graceful man I’ve met,” Flins says, sounding as awake as ever. “For you, every act of hosting I take on purpose comes naturally and is done with ease. I don’t see why following your example on my own behest should cause you any turmoil.”

The weight of it settles on his shoulders uneasily. Flins is older than him, he knows, though he isn’t sure of by how much. He’s always assumed he was in his forties or so, but young looking. To be seen as so great in his eyes, when he’s seen far more than he has, and surely met those who have let far less people down - it feels like adulation. 

“That’s what I mean, Sir Flins. You’re such a flatterer, I can’t tell if you’d prefer I start running to keep up with you.”

Silence follows in his wake. As they start the hike up between graves and ghostly flickering, worry roils in Illuga’s stomach with as much force as the ocean. Did he say too much? He hadn’t meant to be so clearly frustrated with himself, or with Flins. Hurting him wasn’t the goal. Or making him think he’s unhappy with himself. That’s not it.

The hand on his back stays, hot enough to chase the winter cold away. Once when he’d gone to the lighthouse, Illuga had told Flins that scrap metal made for a rather unpleasant place to sit, having seen how barebones the entirety of the inside was, and said that he’d be sure to bring something warm and cozy over on the next visit.

Past the stairs and entranceway, a familiar thick blanket rests on the bench outside, patterned with nightingales and a new moon. Knitted by someone at Piramida, and bought as a gift. It’d felt familiar from the moment he first saw it. Like he knew who would treasure it the most. Flins puts the package down and picks the blanket up instead.

“I did have something else in mind, I must admit,” he says, and Illuga’s eyebrows furrow, guilt for his own exhaustion weighing him down as much as the tiredness itself. Flins opens the door and guides him inside. It’s spacious and a little cold, display cases and metal cabinets lining the walls without making the living room feel lived in. There’s an old wooden table in the middle, a bottle of fire water sitting on it, and no sign of any solid food or a place to cook at all. He hasn’t ever seen him buy a vegetable. When he makes a fish dinner for them, it’s on a fire outside.

He’d always been concerned about the sheer amount of alcohol Flins had, colorful flasks with intricate patterns shining whenever the moon fell through the window just right. He drank so much, but he barely ate unless Illuga insisted when he visited, and even then he tried to squirrel his way out of it. An oddity that always went unexplained no matter how he pried.

“What is it?” He asks, concern sharp on his tongue.

“Could you sleep in my bed tonight?”

Illuga struggles to swallow. Flins’ face is entirely straight, serious, and he sees now that he’s been led right to the bedroom where a shoddy, thin mattress lies on metal framing. It isn’t as if he has never slept in the same tent as anyone else— Illuga can easily remember the rows of bunks that he had to share as a child, countless stories of having to share a bedroll due to the cold, and once waking up in the night to cover a comrade’s body from the Wild Hunt with his own. 

It’s just that the nightmares don’t stop unless he’s dead tired, and they aren’t pretty. He wakes at the slightest sound. There’s always a knife under his pillow. Just in case.

Flins also has a perfectly functioning bench in the living room that would work fine if he lent him a blanket. He’s slept rougher, in Wild Hunt infested territory at the bottom of the Kipumaki Cliff. Offering him his bed is different from the simple act of sharing a four man tent, and that means clearly he’s messing with him, but his eyes are so soft when Illuga looks into them that it’s hard to make the accusation. 

He does it anyway, blinking blearily to make sure he’s not just hallucinating. Exhaustion does odd things to the mind. He isn’t sure why this would be one of them, but he’s heard of weirder. A tired or anxious mind targets the things that matter most. “You’re making a joke out of all my worries, aren’t you? You can’t sleep on the sofa in your own home, Sir Flins.”

“That was never the intent,” he says, awfully calm. “My bed is adequately sized for two people, and if this is a matter of preferring not to share, I feel confident in my ability to keep awake for another round of patrols.”

“You can’t,” Illuga repeats, shuffling to block the sight of the exit so he doesn’t get any funny ideas about giving up his own damned bed just to go out fighting. After all of today, he’s not sure that even Flins could keep himself safe. “I can sleep on the bench.”

Flins tilts his head down just a little. It doesn’t make him tower over him any less.

“That makes me appear quite ungrateful,” he says, and Illuga raises an eyebrow. His voice is gentle enough that what he’s pretty sure is a scolding barely feels like one. The kind of soft that strikes him, hard and mercilessly, as the kind that comes with honest adoration. “Making you follow me around the entirety of Nod-Krai, only to make you sleep on cold metal? For shame, Young Master. That is not how I feel about you in the slightest.”

“And I’m saying I don’t mind, so you don’t have to feel bad about it,” he says, ignoring the warmth rising to his face.

“Unfortunately, the emotions of others aren’t something you can decide. There is nothing you can do about my regrets, if you truly wish to sleep in the living room, and I’ll still take the night watch as per usual.”

Illuga can’t tell if he’s fighting a sigh or a yawn or an annoyed groan. The bed is, in fact, awfully tempting. The bench makes his back ache even when he’s just been sitting on it for too long. But disrupting Flins’ sleep and well-being for his own— it just doesn’t feel right. He wants him to be safe. Not to put Illuga’s comfort above his own when he can manage fine.

He must be able to see the exasperation on his face, because Flins’ warm hand curls around his shoulder. His own ball up in frustration at his sides. There’s no need to coddle him now, nor to tease him every other time.

“Do you want water before going to sleep?”

Illuga can’t see much past Flins in front of him.

“Are you going to drink some as well?”

“I’m not thirsty.”

It really isn’t fair. He has a bad sense of humor. If he knows him well enough - and he does - Flins drinks more alcohol than he does water. Worry churns, ceaseless.

“Are you tired, then?”

“Not in particular, no.”

Sometimes Illuga wants nothing more or less than to know what’s going on inside that head of his.

“Are you going to rest if I do what you’ve asked of me?”

“If that’s your single demand of the evening, how could I not?”

Flins’ hand slips from his shoulder, down his arm, and to his fingers. Blood has soaked through the bandages. When he cradles his palm in both of his hands, the bright red sticks out against his gloves like the moon on a starless night. He hooks his pinky in his, shakes it up and down. Like the smaller version of intertwining arms that comes with swearing yourself in as a Lightkeeper. An old tradition to ward off the fae, who’ll always avoid promises, he’d heard.

Illuga blinks, sighs - or yawns, he isn’t sure - and finally he nods. He’ll sleep in Flins’ bed, and seem like a nuisance who hasn’t grown out of his fear, but he won’t take away his time for rest. That’s his one demand. Negotiation is surely an undervalued skill for us Lightkeepers, he thinks, stepping through the doorway to the bedroom. He doesn't feel as guilty as he thinks he should.

"Alright," he says, half-petulant and half-endeared. "You win, Mr. Flins."

—

By the time Illuga has taken off his coat and boots and laid down, he’s already barely awake. Flins sits beside him, gently combing his hair away from his face with his fingers, messy as it is from the chaos of the day. “Sleep well, Master Illuga,” he whispers, and there's a grumbled little noise as he leans against the touch, somewhere between a complaint and approval. The moonlight from the window plays over his face in dim flashes, revealing flushed cheeks and a small smile. 

Exhaustion forces his eyes shut, and his body to relax. It’s not even been a minute before he’s fast asleep. Sometimes, a long series of tricks is all that it takes to make Illuga’s day a little better. Without a doubt, he considers the work worth it.

Flins carefully tugs the thin blanket over Illuga’s scarred shoulders. His breath comes out slow and deep, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he sleeps. Awfully pretty, his young master is. It'd be a crime not to appreciate that. The ocean hums a tune outside the lighthouse, waves crashing against the cliffs in a dreamy rhythm. 

He lifts an old, worn book from the bedside table, read so frequently that the leather cover has had its letters smudged. It’s been through its fair share of trouble.

Illuga had left it behind after a sudden recall due to changed schedules. He's so busy looking after everyone, it can be hard to find him. Therefore the opportunity to give it back had never arisen, though he’d considered leaving it in his crowded mailbox or in his home once or twice. Tomorrow isn’t always promised, Flins knows, and that means tonight will be the best time to make sure he won’t head back to Piramida empty handed.

Watching him curl into the blankets, expression more peaceful than he’s seen in a long while, however…

Flins opens Tales Carried by the Northwind to the first page, traces a finger over Illuga’s name signed at the very bottom, and begins to read. No nightmares come that night, and the book remains an excuse for a visit to be used another day.