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Frost clung to his clothing as he stepped into the warm interior of the Curatorium, mindful of the way he shut the door. It was just a few hours before daybreak, so he kept his footsteps light, and padded along the dark room, being careful to avoid the delicate pottery and intricately woven tapestries.
The door creaks under his weight, and he winces, as if the slight noise had physically hurt him. Inside the room, three sleeping figures lay snuggled on the bed, huddled together so closely that it made his frozen cheeks warm.
Flins settles his lantern on the nearby dresser, lighting the corner of the room with his ghostly blue flame, and perches himself next to it. He contents himself to watching the rise and fall of his partners, observing the gentle lull of their breathing.
Nefer's face, usually sharp and unapproachable, looks soft in the moonlight, framed with her messy dark green hair. Her face bore a serene expression, something Flins had noticed only when it was just the four of them present.
Seeing Nefer being relaxed and trusting enough around them to peel back the layers of her mask, made Flins’ stomach twist in guilt. Would he have the same courage to melt away his human guise and reveal himself when the time comes, Flins finds himself lost on the answer.
His gaze drifts and lands on the sleeping Moonchanter, noticing the faint circles of exhaustion under her eyes. Sleepless nights could only be the cause of this blemish to her beauty, and for someone as duty bound as the leader of the Frostmoon Scions, this unfortunately was a common occurrence.
Flins understood all too well how pressing the weight of self-imposed duty could feel.
When one is lost without a purpose, perhaps binding themselves to the guiding light of responsibility may seem to be the only path of salvation. Or in Lauma's case, a role thrust upon her at such a young age that she had practically been moulded into shape by it.
Flins sighs, soft and weary, and turns his attention to the Grandmaster.
His arm that circles all of them is littered with scars, ancient relics from his past battles. Even in his sleep, his need to protect was apparent.
Humans were such fragile creatures, yet they stubbornly cling to their lives even in the most dire situations, with the will that rivalled the gods.
Flins was brought back to the stormy night drenched in bloodshed. He remembers the Lightkeepers’ final stand against the Wild Hunt, their dying words etched into his mind.
It was their light that had sparked his flame once more, causing him to turn his heart towards humanity. And now he had something more than that to protect.
Lauma wakes up to a dimly lit room, the curtains are slightly parted and sunlight seeps into every corner. The room is also unusually warm, especially for Nod Krai’s weather.
A quick glance of the room leads here to lock eyes with Flins. He stood next to his lantern, overcoat still on and shoulders set tensely, however his eyes betray a certain softness that contrasted with his body language.
Lauma lets out a small smile before beckoning sleepily towards Flins.
Despite himself, Flins felt his worries melt away like frost. Perhaps he could let his fears consume him at another time.