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Flins stands overlooking the waters' crystalline edge, a scene of rolling clouds fighting against the suns rays at his back. The heavy atmosphere falls away for the lightkeeper though, as he gazes upon the ''blight of Kipumaki peak''.
A wave of anger rolls through Flins as he recalls the tales divulged by Illuga, even those whispered behind the captains back. Gruesome tales fit to turn the stomach of anyone who accepts the protection of the lightkeepers unquestioningly. Unaware of the sacrifices made to keep Nod-Krai bathed in golden light, as opposed to unending dark. Flins knows this foe of the abyss has raged its war on the northernmost residents of Nod-Krai for centuries now, and soon, the brave lightkeepers of Piramida aim to finally rid the island of its onslaught.
At this plan of action, a curious clench of sadness smothers Flins flame. Just for a moment. A moment not gone unnoticed, as the fae quizzically ponders the lantern at his side. Watching how it thrashes and ebbs in the wake of that stray, illusive feeling.
Deep down, Flins knows why his gaze has not left the far away form of that glowing mass. Dwarfing the storied valleys of Kipumaki peak, a sphere of radiant magenta and dusty pinks swirls ominously. Almost as if with affronted anger. In the center, a thin vertical rip slices through the middle of this baleful orb, by happenstance resembling the catlike slit of an eye.
The Flins of long days past heard tell of this impending threat before. Previously not giving its appearance a second thought, in an act of blissful ignorance the Flins of today cannot partake in.
Now, the lightkeeper stands alone, a hand on the lantern on his hip, as his flames crash upon the glass like a deadly storm. Uncaring for others to take notice of his condition though, for who would in these desolate ruins, the fae unwittingly surrenders to the traitorous thoughts this "demon" has plagued him with.
But with the newly found stone shard of Rerir's heart warming his coat pocket, how could he not be suddenly tempted to such sentimentalities?
Flins thinks back to the events of his arrival.
This routine trip to the northern isles of Nod-Krai, has inexplicably proven rife with memories of him so far, the fae realizes. Why, just moments after disembarking from the ferry over, Flins' lantern flashed a dire shade of red. Heeding its warning, Flins excused himself from his fellow ratnik. Too easy an act, his elegantly crafted words leaving them contented and pliable. Unquestioning.
The lightkeeper was only too grateful for their immense trust to handle the threat on his own. Seeing as, what his search uncovered was not a wild hunt disturbance, but... a stone, buried deep in the sand.
A tiny thing, the size of the tip of his finger possibly, but it held so much weight in his palm. Too small to pose abyssal risk in this state, supplied a whisper. Too... Insignificant to report to his colleagues, surely. Why worry his, already overworked, fellow ratnik with that which he can take care of on his own? Deciding that, Flins then allowed his gaze to linger on the stone, with more warmth seeping into his features. Like a dam breaking after holding back its burden for much too long.
The stone in question was a beautiful wine red, akin to a beading wound in the center of his palm. A dilute, delicate pink at its edges. Invoking the image of a dark drop of blood in a pool of water, staking its claim.
Finally bringing the crystal to eye level, Flins marveled at the cracks littering its form. The refractions made of the setting sun on the horizon, how that warmth encouraged the gem to glow. The fae moves to hold that piece of crimson sunlight protectively to his chest. In his hands lies such a horribly sharp, fractured gem. It is all the more perfect under his gaze for it.
Later that night, in the privacy of the guest rooms of Piramida, Flins brought his palms up to his face. Hidden under the covers, covers meant to bring rest to the weary forms of light keepers after hard days of work pushing back the wild hunt... yes, under those innocent covers, he set a kiss upon that wonderfully jagged stone.
Snapping back to the present moment, Flins took in the darkness that now surrounded him. The soft rays of sunlight replaced by an auspicious moon.
At the lingering memory of the stone, the fae's tongue darts over the sinuous lines of his lower lip, healing over the cuts he sustained. Cuts Flins is only too grateful for, a reminder.
Flins swears he can feel the greedy shard resting above his heart, pulse.
Flins falls. At the mercy of desires for the dwindling rays of sunlight to hit that intense gaze, if only to see how the light cracks through that wonderful hue of pink. More, how he wishes for the pupil to contract, fix on his position in turn, how he almost fools himself that it does. A painful dance into insanity he has willed himself to. What would the other lightkeepers say should they find Flins the exact same state they left him in, only weeks later, and unable to tear his eyes away from the source of so much of their plight? Would dear Illuga avert his eyes from the weeds starting to grow around Flins' boots?
For now, such thoughts drift to the blissful quiet behind the true subject of his mind. For now, Flins hands itch to touch the moonbeams that now kindly blanket him instead. Thread his fingers through that haunting, white celestial glow that he knows is achingly soft.
How he wishes for the curdling clouds above his head to make up their mind― for thunder to finally barrel towards the earth. To feel it rumble through his chest, so he can close his eyes and reminisce on the deep, sardonic laughter of that man; how his own frame shook with the motion, plastered close to that wide plane of muscle as he was.
The fae's chest aches, his biting fire roaring loud enough to drown out the rushing wind and the eager tide crashing on the shore. Flame at his side writhing in an urgency that nearly wills Flins' feet to march themselves back to his polished grave, and flee. Flee from this unfairly familiar sorrow.
Instead, Flins' boots crunch on crumbling rock. The ratnik wills himself to forge onwards. To not stumble as he watched the "pupil" of such a wrong imitation, indeed track his movements as he quietly longed for it to do. With each step, the sinful miasma of the abyss smothers the fae's senses more and more. So much so that even as a creature unneeding of air as he is, the lightkeeper still found himself experiencing something akin to the feeling of being short of breath, as his human companions have described it. In Flins own words though, he felt as his core began to crack and flicker, the closer his feet carried him to that foreboding eye. The ratnik walked on as the dark shadows of the valley stretched, warping along the walls of cliffs, cutting through the magenta glow painting the land.
Flins body carried him forth on instinct alone, the fae's mind willfully succumbing to the dizzying feeling of being pinned under that gaze.
Higher, higher. Until the ratnik has to dig his gloved fingers into the dirt, and hoist himself up over rock to keep in the blight's line of sight.
Lantern at his side blaring, warning, as Flins flame left naught of the creatures blocking his path. Closer, closer.
Until...
Until no obstacles stood in the way of Flins and that being. The lightkeepers gloved hands clenched at his sides, as he noted how dramatically the pupil bent to still gaze upon him from so close.
"Hmm."
...Truly a cheap imitation. Flins in fact, began to feel some shame for daring to compare this thing that rests before him to... to his eye. No longer could the fae delude himself. No longer could he chase a ghost. Under that false gaze, a cold spread through Flins' chest; a river freezing over, trapping the life underneath in an everlasting winter.
In the morning, he is expected to see Illuga and his fellow colleagues off against the demon before him.
Flins turns on his heel and stalks away, refusing to look back at that which he knows is still watching him. At the very least, he concedes, the ratnik cleared the way for his captains team. However his skin may crawl at the unheeding gaze at his back, the illusion is at least broken. Yet Flins is far from sated.
Flins curses the blight. Curses its audacity to hold a likeness to something so far removed from itself. Curses the thoughts that threaten to drown him on his long journey back to headquarters.
The tense scowl usually unseen on the fae's face suddenly breaks in surprise, though. Interrupting his thoughts, that small garnet coloured stone started to hum. Tentatively floating his fingers above his coat pocket, Flins finally ceases his march. He rests his hand over where his heart would be, encompassing the gems form. Flins' eyes drift closed in serenity for the first time that night.
After a long moment, the fae looks past his eyelashes up to the sky. He ponders the moon, the shadow concealed within it, and wonders if he is not the only one falling for bygone memories tonight.