Chapter Text
Flins can’t seek help now.
Not when his dark clothes are stained by the evidence of his injuries with deep azure blood, when his fingers have turned to sharp claws tearing through the tips of his gloves, and when pale blue flames lick and dance across his deathly pale skin. The parts of Flins’s uniform that haven’t been turned to tatters by rifthound claws are scorched by the blue flames raging out of control across his body. But, worst of all was his face, which is obscured by a dark shadow almost resembling a mask with only blue lights for eyes and a crescent moon-shaped arc of the same light curving upwards where Flins’s mouth would have been. It’s an uncanny sight which would terrify any human to gaze upon it.
Flins doesn’t move, and doesn’t try and dress his wounds or find somewhere safer. He isn’t breathing, not that he needs to, but before his lungs were crushed in the past battle, he would always mimic the action for convenience and comfort. Even when the leaves of the bush he’s hidden in rustle in the wind and tangle in his hair, he doesn’t even twitch.
The sounds of fighting come from nearby.
It’s his people, the Lightkeepers— he knows this. But he’ll never seek their help, not in this state.
The cries of the battlefield continue for what feels like forever. Flins listens and wishes more than anything that he could leap back into the fray and hep his comrades.
Eventually, the clamor subsides, replaced by the cries of familiar voices.
“Is that all of them?”
“I think we’ve cleared them out.”
“Is anyone injured?” It’s Illuga’s voice. Flins flinches— his first movement in what feels like hours.
“All good here!”
“Same over here! No casualties!”
“What is this blood on the ground? Come look at this!”
“Is it from the Wild Hunt monsters?”
“That can’t be it, I’ve never seen them bleed before!”
Flins grimaces again; it was certainly his blood staining the grass nearby that his comrades now crowded around. He’d lost a lot of it too.
“Do rifthounds bleed?”
“I haven’t seen them bleed before either.”
“How about those bird creatures?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We need to get back to camp soon and report our findings. We don’t have time to investigate,” Illuga’s voice cuts through the clamor again.
Flins has perhaps never been so thankful in his life. He listens as footsteps fade and he is left alone in his undisturbed hiding place. He’ll need to crawl back to the graveyard to lick his wounds, but first— now that the adrenaline was fading, he is so, so tired.
Everything feels foggy. It’s harder and harder for him to keep his eyes awake, until eventually, the world fades to a bleary gray haze where nothing hurt anymore.
…
“Flins… Flins!”
The voice is so far away. He barely stirs.
“Sir Flins, you have to wake up! Please!” It’s a little clearer this time.
His body is sinking into quicksand and his mind is submerged in a vast sea. Trying to comprehend where he was or what was calling for him feels impossible, so he continues to sink.
…
Illuga’s hands are trembling and his gloves are stained with fresh, violet-colored blood.
Flins, his fellow Lightkeeper, his senior, his friend is covered in grave injuries, lifeless and tangled in the branches of a bush. The other man’s body is covered in blue flames and a different, wet blue substance— how could this be blood?— stains his clothes, not to mention the mask-like shape shrouding Flins’s face.
Illuga had decided to return alone to the scene of the strange blood to investigate after his team had gotten back to camp safely, but he never imagined he’d find something so unimaginable.
Two things were apparent: something supernatural is afoot, and Flins also has absolutely no vitals.
Even after Illuga checks four, five, six times, he can’t find anything. No pulse, no breath, no movement. The Lightkeeper’s body has already cooled to the same temperature as the crisp, late autumn night’s air.
Had he been still breathing when Illuga had been right next to his body hours ago, telling his teammates that there was no need to investigate further? Could he have saved him?
No, Illuga resolves himself. Something isn’t right about the state of Flins’s body. There has to be hope.
Illuga can’t lose anyone else.
The boy bites his lip to keep tears from flowing and hurriedly rushes to lay the Lightkeeper flat and position himself above his chest. Illuga then begins chest compressions, trying to force life back into Flins’s body. It’s immediately obvious that something is wrong with Flins’s lungs, and after a minute, Illuga starts to hear ribs breaking with each compression.
“Flins…” Illuga is nearly begging as he calls out to him. “Flins, please,” his voice cracks. Hot tears are running down his cheeks and wetting the other man’s tattered clothing.
More ribs break beneath his hands. Illuga can’t hear the sound of it anymore; the ringing in his ears has drowned everything out.
Illuga can only close his eyes and pray for a miracle.
After what seemed to be hours and hours of trying to force life back into Flins’s body, Illuga finally feels something.
Flins jolts violently and tries to inhale, but the sound that comes of it is violent and strained. He jerks, gagging, and it takes Illuga a second to process what’s happening and roll him on to his side. The Lightkeeper throws up clumps of blue blood and black bile into the grass while Illuga clutches his body and watches with trembling hands and vision blurry with tears.
“Flins…” he whispers softly, almost in denial.
Once Flins stops throwing up, Illuga brings his fingers to his throat again to attempt to check his vitals. He still can’t find a pulse or breath; we’re they too weak to detect?
Or maybe there was nothing to find.
The silence that follows is long and intensive. Illuga is clutching Flins’s clothing again, staring down with wide eyes, trying to make sense of if what he’s seeing is an illusion.
“Sir Flins…?”
The silence then continues for ages. It’s eventually broken with a cough.
“Ill….uga…?”
Flins’s voice is too weak and too raspy, practically nonexistent, and it’s evident he’s in some kind of respiratory distress. But, when Illuga tries again to check his breathing, he can’t find even the faintest of breath from the other man.
It takes a long time for Illuga’s rational mind to return, and he once again return to his amateur attempts at first aid. He keeps checking Flins’s vitals over and over, constantly nudging the other man to keep him awake. Illuga talks to him without even thinking about what he’s saying, doing it more to comfort himself then to actually speak to Flins.”
“Flins, talk to me. I-I can’t find a pulse, but you’re still alive, I don’t understand… please stay with me. You’ve got to stay awake. I’ll get you back to camp, and someone can look at you, you’re going to be ok, I promise.”
At this final sentence, Flins finally reacts, though he’s delayed in doing so. No sound comes out of his mouth when he attempts to protest, just the sound of labored air being pushed through crushed lungs. “μή” he mouths. “μή… μή.”
Illuga just stares at him with wide eyes; he’s able to read lips, yet can’t understand what Flins is trying to say. After a moment, he can perhaps guess Flins’s thoughts; the other man doesn’t want to go back to camp as he doesn’t want to be seen like this.
Flins tries to talk again. Without working lungs, he can’t properly speak, so barely any sound comes forth aside from the hissing of air. Again, Illuga tries to read the other man’s lips, but can’t understand the words he’s saying.
“Μή με ὅρα…”
“What?” Illuga’s eyebrows furrow, and frustration rises in his chest. He can tell now that Flins is speaking another language, but he can’t identify which one. Illuga is seeing a side of him he’s never seen before, and while some might have found Flins to be shocking or scary in this state, Illuga feels none of those things. Instead, he feels frustration and a slight flickering of anger; he’s known Flins for so long now, and the other man hadn’t trusted him enough to share a secret regarding his humanity so deep it encompassed his entire identity? Illuga’s hands ball into fists.
“You could have told me… did you think I would be afraid, or did you just not trust me? Was me finding you on your deathbed really the only way I would have ever learned about you?” Illuga agonizes inside his head.
Flins’s face finally fades back to normal and Illuga can meet his gaze, but his eyes are glassy and his pupils are unfocused. From the way his awareness drifts, he likely also has some kind of head injury. Still, he seems to be able to sense Illuga’s frustration, and he slurs out again weakly.
“Μεταμέλει μοι…”
“I can’t understand you,” Illuga’s voice wavers a little.
“ἱκετεύω,” Flins rasps out. “οἴκαδέ με κόμισον.”
“Flins… what are you? I-I don’t know what to do, I know you don’t want me to bring you back to camp in this state, but… I don’t know where else to take you.”
Flins doesn’t answer, and Illuga resolves that he’s going to attempt to carry the other man back over his shoulder; it isn’t a terribly long walk. But, as soon as he attempts to lift him, Flins lets out a wretched choking noise followed by a desperate whine of pain completely unbecoming of his usual nature.
“παῦε… ἀλγῶ…” he slurs in a tense, whispered voice.
His claws dig into Illuga’s arm and shoulder for support, and the boy is sure they draw blood in the process. Illuga barely flinches, using all of his strength to hold Flins still while the other adjusts to being held upright.
Illuga was hoping to help him walk, but he can see the Lightkeeper’s eyelashes beginning to flutter. He can only curse and try to grip tighter as he watches Flins’s eyes roll back into his head and his body go boneless, the broken sound of air struggling to escape coming from his lips.
But Flins is light, too light. He wasn’t this light only a moment ago when Illuga was struggling to lift him.
The Lightkeeper’s body dissolves into blue flame, physical form vanishing from Illuga’s arms before the other boy can even attempt to process what’s happening. These flames quickly converge and fill Flins’s lantern, which lays on the ground beside them, making it glow brightly and illuminate the surrounding area.
Illuga’s arms grasp at nothing and his blood runs cold.
He scrabbles for the lantern, overwhelmed by desperation.
The metal is cold, but the fire inside is full of life. Illuga hugs it to his chest and he doesn’t know how, but he can feel Flins’s presence pulsing inside the flames.
They’re the same flames that enshrouded Flins’s body earlier, and the same flames which have always filled this lantern.
“Flins… are you there…?” Illuga whispers in a shaky voice.
No verbal response comes, but Illuga feels the answer regardless; he doesn’t know how to exactly describe the sensation, but his head is filled with the sensation of Flins’s body in his embrace, and he can nearly smell a whiff of the cedar and tobacco scented cologne that the Lightkeeper always wore. The sensation is so strong and overwhelming that Illuga sits with it for a minute, feeling both emotional and comforted.
Instinctually, he knows that Flins is alive inside the lantern, even if logically, the concept makes no sense.
“I need to bring him somewhere safe,” Illuga finally jolts back to reality.
And thus, driven by this sudden urgency, the smaller Lightkeeper grasps the lantern and makes for the Cliffwatch camp as fast as his legs can carry him.
The first thing he does when he’s back to camp is steal someone’s thick cloak that was left hanging unattended and drape it over himself, concealing Flins’s lantern beneath it. It’s late at night, so only a few Lightkeepers are awake; he hurriedly tells one of them that he’s been summoned to Piramida and needs to leave immediately.
Then, he practically runs across the plains, at some points hearing the cries of monsters but never stopping to give them a glance. Fierce wind rips at his hair and he nearly gets lost in the mist of the forest on the way, but the fierce light of the blue pattern cuts through the fog.
When Illuga arrives at the lift to Piramida, he hurriedly hides the lantern again, taking a moment to fix his hair and make himself look as dignified as possible. The Lightkeeper operating the lift still gives him an odd look, which fills Illuga with panic. Had he forgotten something?
“Sir Illuga, what is all over your hands? It’s covering your clothes too!”
Illuga glances down and realizes the coming light of sunrise has made the sight of Flins’s blood covering him more obvious. Earlier, it had been dark, so the Lightkeepers at the base camp hadn’t noticed, but now, he’d been exposed. Still, he tries his best to stay calm.
“You see… earlier, I-I saw a merchant caravan beset by the Wild Hunt, and stepped in to assist. In the process, some of their cargo was damaged, which unfortunately happened to contain cans of paint. I need to hurry and wash my clothes before it stains.” He tries his best to seem confident but urgently annoyed instead of panicked.
“Ahh, what a shame, it doesn’t look like it will come out. Hurry, now!” The other Lightkeeper ushers him onto the lift. “If you quickly use a little bit of bleach, you might be able to wash out some of the paint if it hasn’t dried yet. It might still be a little wet.”
“Yes, of course,” while Illuga is surprised by the reaction, he does his best to play along, and is quickly sent on his way up to the base.
Illuga goes straight home, and by some miracle, manages to avoid running into anyone.
As soon as he pulls the lantern free from where he had concealed it within the cloak, Flins’s body reforms from blue flame, and flops lifelessly against the floor. Illuga panicks and drags him to his bed, struggling to lift him up but eventually succeeding.
Illuga stares at Flins’s prone form for a few seconds, completely silent. Then, he gets to work.
First, he pulls away Flins’s tattered clothes, until the man is left with nothing but his underwear. There were so many more injuries than Illuga had initially realized; his body is covered in thick, deep slashes from a rifthound’s claws. The one on his chest that Illuga had bandaged earlier was the deepest, so he focuses on this one first.
Flins still has no vitals, so Illuga is relieved when the alcohol he pours into the wound makes the other man unconsciously groan in pain, even if the sound makes Illuga’s stomach twist. He’s still alive.
He cleans the wounds with careful, slightly shaky hands, stitches the biggest gashes closed, then bandages them in white cloth. Then, Illuga stares down at his handiwork, feeling nauseous.
Flins shows no sign of stirring, so Illuga occupies himself with stripping his own clothing down and throwing it in the washing bin. He quickly puts on new clothes, embarrassed to be seen even though Flins is still unconscious.
With nothing left in his power to do, Illuga sits by Flins’s bedside and frets. His gaze falls to the lantern on the bedside table; just what is Flins? There had been many things Illuga had noticed that were off about him throughout the years, how he always seemed to appear in rooms despite nobody noticing the door opening, the way he would never eat and rarely drank in front of others, and the way he spoke little about his past no matter how hard he was pressed. Illuga had always suspected something was afoot with him, but he’d never imagined this.
Was he a ghost? This would explain the lack of vitals. But, he’d seen Flins injured in the past, and he’d heard his heartbeat and felt his breath before. One of the Wild Hunt monsters? No, there was no way. Perhaps a vampire? Illuga didn’t know.
Needing something to occupy his mind with, Illuga himself with picking out the leaves and branches tangled in Flins’s hair from the bush he’d hidden inside.
It’s nearly an hour before Flins stirs.
He doesn’t wake gently; after a few moments of returning to reality, he begins to thrash and tear at the sheets. Sharp claws make quick work of Illuga’s beloved comforter and tear it to shreds in a heartbeat.
“Flins, calm down!”
But Illuga’s words fall on deaf ears, and Flins continues to struggle. The smaller boy is forced to hold him down, and immediately gets swiped on the arm by one of Flins’s claws.
“ἄφες με,” Flins is begging in a wheezed voice. His face is still human, though Illuga can see that his eyes are completely glossy with no focus. “παῦε! ἱκετεύω… ἱκετεύω.”
His voice sounds so broken, Illuga feels as if he’s been stabbed. The boy doesn’t even process the pain from where Flins’s talons were grabbing at his arms and back while he tried his best to hold him down and keep him from struggling further.
“It’s ok, I’m here, it’s me, Illuga! Flins, please calm down, you’re going to be ok,” Illuga tries to comfort him, but doesn’t sound as convincing as he’d like with the way his voice is trembling.
“ἱκετεύω…” Flins mumbles again, gradually relaxing and starting to calm down. Illuga can hear him trying to breathe, but the man can only wheeze desperately with the faintest amount of air escaping his lips.
“I’m right here,” Illuga says to him gently, sliding his fingers through Flins’s hair in an attempt to be soothing. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
Eventually, Flins whispers faintly, “χάριν οἶδα σοι,” then goes completely still.
Illuga can only hope he’s just resting soundly again and not actually dead this time.
…
Illuga had fallen asleep in the chair by Flins’s bedside a couple hours prior without intending to, and he was slouched in an awkward position when the faintest sound of the rustling of blankets instantly woke him.
“Sir Flins, are you with me?”
A soft exhale, and then a groan. After the air leaves his lungs, Illuga can hear him trying to fill them again, but all that comes of the attempt is a broken wheeze and a fit of coughs.
“Illuga…?” He mouths after a span of silence.
“I’m here,” Illuga replies. “I brought you right to my house, nobody saw you, I promise. But, I don’t know how to treat your injuries. They’re really grave, and you don’t have any vitals, and I-“ his voice breaks. “I don’t know what to do—“
“It’s ok,” Flins wheezes, and there’s a tiny bit of sound behind his voice this time. He’s finally speaking Teyvat’s common language again, to Illuga’s relief.
“Are you ok?” An unbelievably stupid question, Illuga realizes after he says it.
“Will be… can… sleep it off,” the other man tries to rasp out. His voice is barely above a whisper, but Illuga can still read his lips.
“You can sleep this off…?” Illuga doesn’t know if this is an actual trait of Flins’s non-human nature, or if the man was just stubbornly downplaying the severity of his injuries. “I don’t want you to lie to me to keep me from worrying.”
“Promise…” he mouths. He tries to look into Illuga’s eyes to seem more sincere, but his gaze is still too unfocused.
This isn’t enough for Illuga, who isn’t able to restrain his emotions any longer. His eyes are watery, and his voice trembles slightly. “Sir Flins, I… I broke most of your ribs doing chest compressions for nearly an hour. You had no vitals, you still don’t, and I didn’t know what to do… I-I thought I’d lost you,” he paused. “So please, I’m begging, be honest with me.”
Flins’s eyes slide closed for a moment as he processes Illuga’s words. Finally, he answers. “I’m sorry.” He mouths. The wheezing sounds that escape him coming straight from his lungs when he tries to talk stab Illuga in the gut. Flins gives up trying to talk, and instead hopes Illuga can read his lips. “My flames… heal me. Have been worse.”
“You’ve been worse?” Illuga doesn’t voice this question aloud, but it makes his stomach twist. Knowing Flins, he would have always crawled away to lick his wounds in solitude, and Illuga couldn’t imagine him suffering through similar or worse injuries without anyone to help him. But, Illuga had seen Flins’s body almost entirely naked earlier, and he hadn’t seen a single scar that wasn’t fresh from the previous day’s fight, so he finally voices the looming question.
“Sir Flins, what are you?”
He feels guilty, for he knows Flins doesn’t want to answer, but he’s also hurt that someone so close to him had felt that they couldn’t trust him with something so deeply important about their own identity. Had he found this out when Flins hadn’t been gravely injured, he perhaps would have even been slightly angry with him.
The silence between them stretches for a very long time; it’s obvious Flins is biding his answer carefully.
Finally, he mouths, “I’m not human.”
“I know that much!” Illuga lets a little bit of frustration seep into his voice, then gets struck by guilt as he sees Flins flinch.
Eventually, finally, Flins mouths out a single word.
“Fae.”
Illuga swallows, throat bobbing visibly. He tries to act casual about what he just learned, but is at a loss for words, a little bit shocked. The boy chooses what he replies carefully. “Are these… your normal vital signs, then?”
“Pulse is… usually faked...” Flins tries to explain. “Breath… need to talk, but… not live.”
So that explains why Flins couldn’t speak properly. Illuga had already surmised that the man’s lungs were likely crushed, and the numerous broken ribs weren’t helping.
Illuga takes a minute to speak again. “How long do you think it will take you to heal?”
Flins answers this question faster than the previous ones. “Week… maybe two.”
The Lightkeeper can tell that his companion is distressed after revealing his identity, so Illuga makes his best attempt to soothe him— perhaps to soothe both of them, as Illuga is still upset— taking one of Flins’s clawed hands in his own and gently stroking it. The skin around his hands is blue in color, with viciously long and sharp black nails.
“Why couldn’t you tell me?” Illuga can’t keep it in any longer, though he manages to restrain most of the anger in his tone. “I’ve asked you about your identity in the past, and you always brush it off. Do you not trust me enough to tell me the truth?”
“Master Illuga…” Flins murmurs.
Illuga wants to say more, but stops himself; he can see how much pain Flins is in currently. He can curb his emotions until the other is fully healed, even if the frustration threatens to bubble out his ears any minute now.
“What happened?” Illuga asks, quieter.
“Rifthounds,” Flins answers after a moment of silence. “Caught me off guard. Thrown around by a big one.”
“Is it dead?”
“No.”
Illuga’s eyebrows furrow; he needed to warn the people of Cliffwatch camp. While the Lightkeeper knows the expedition schedule well enough to know that nobody should be venturing out to Kipumaki Cliff again any time soon, it wouldn’t hurt to alert them just in case. If the monster who hurt Flins was still hanging around, Illuga might have to organize a patrol to hunt it himself,
“Ok,” Illuga breathes. “I— do you need to eat?” He was still quite at a loss for words; he had so many questions for Flins, but no idea which ones to ask,
“No,” Flins answers plainly.
“Drink?”
“No.”
Helplessness turns to frustration again. “Can I do anything?” It comes out harsher than Illuga means it to.
“The young master could… keep talking to me.” Flins suggests weakly with a playful note in his voice.
“You—!” Illuga is flustered.”I, no, I need to sleep. Now that I know you’re not dying, I’m going to bed.” He moves as if to get up.
“Wait,” Flins wheezes. “Where… are you going?”
“The couch. I’ll be right outside your room.”
“No,” Flins insists. “Move me to the couch. I’m the guest here.”
“No, you’re too heavy to move,” Illuga lies, urgently turning him down. “You’re staying in my bed.”
“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” Flins says stubbornly.
“And neither are you,” Illuga retorts back, a little fire in his voice.
“Well…” Flins exhales, defeated. “Looks like… we’re at an impass. Lucky your bed isn’t too small.”
“Huh?” It takes Illuga a second to process what Flins means. “Oh… we’re sharing the bed?”
“We’ll never come to an agreement otherwise… the young master is too stubborn,” the Fae’s voice is once again playful, this time in a way that makes Illuga’s face flush a tiny bit.
“I—“ Illuga means to protest, but can’t find any way or reason to do so. “…Ok. Let me change into sleeping clothes.”
The bed in Illuga’s room isn’t terribly large, so the two of them are forced into a close proximity. A little bit of warmth has returned to Flins’s body, which Illuga might have found soothing were it not for the wheezing attempts at breaths which filled the otherwise silent night air.
Flins is asleep quickly, but it takes Illuga a long time to follow. Until he does, the Lightkeeper grips the blankets and tries not to cry beside the ailing body of his most cherished person. He can’t let Flins see him cry.
But when he does, his sleep is blissfully dreamless.