Archive of Our Own

After rounding up the last of the civilians from Voidsea Outlook, Illuga joins them on a ship bound north for Snezhnaya. He finds a spot for the trip on the stern, elbows propped up on the railing. The waters are choppy today, stirred by a fierce gale that whips his hair against his face. As the vessel speeds away from Piramida’s docks, his gaze lingers on the blue domes that have swallowed up the southern regions of Nod-Krai. Each of the monstrosities pulsates like a beating heart, larger and more glaring than the last.

Energy fields courtesy of the Second Harbinger, Flins had explained to him back in Nasha Town. The sheer power required for such a feat is far beyond Illuga’s ability to comprehend. And yet, the nightmarish domes had only been the tip of the iceberg in the Ratnik's report. Flins had spoken of Khaenri’ahn sinners, primordial moons and a missing goddess without even batting his enigmatic yellow eyes.

No, he had remained as unruffled as ever while recounting that mortifying ordeal. Like it was one of his whimsical tales of old Snezhnayan nobility, aborted at the climax to ensure Illuga returned for the ending. There hadn’t even been the faintest tremble of anxiety in his voice while he told Illuga of the curse that prevented him from leaving Nod-Krai. If anything, his determination had been clear as day. Curse or not, he planned on seeing the crisis through, even to a bitter end.

There is no doubt that Flins is leagues stronger than most, if not all of the other Lightkeepers. This man bore a medal from the bloodbath that wiped out the rest of his squad. He handled the spontaneous Wild Hunt outbreaks in the south on his own. He had already survived multiple encounters with the Rächer of Solnari and The Doctor. Even if he hadn't been swept up in it, he would have been the representative their organization appointed for the fight for Teyvat.

He fit right in with the rest of that illustrious team—two Harbingers, the Knight of Boreas, the Moonchanter, the master of the Curatorium of Secrets, and the legendary Traveler (if they found her). Based on his history of emerging from the most dire of situations with nothing worse than a scratch, he was likely to walk out of this one too.

The rational side of Illuga knows all of this. Still, the pit of his stomach churns strangely as the ship draws further away from the colleague he left behind. It didn’t matter how strong Flins and his companions were. Being saved by others will never be right to Illuga.

But Flins had made a promise to Illuga, disarming smile and silver tongue and all. When everything is over, they will go fishing and sunbathe together at the lighthouse. Illuga will press him for answers. Finally learn the truth of Flins’ nature and what lay beneath his masquerade of the perfect—if puzzling—gentleman.

And perhaps, on that day yet to come, if the waves are gentle upon the shore and the moonlight bright in their eyes, Illuga will find the courage to tell Flins about the tenderness he has been harbouring in his heart.

It had been on the tip of his tongue before they parted ways in Nasha Town, kindling waiting for that first spark. But Flins was already carrying the fate of the world. For all that Illuga the lovesick young man has desired his golden-eyed confidant, Illuga the squad leader wouldn’t make a mistake as classic as confessing right before dispatching one of his Ratnik.

Illuga's eyes remain turned in the direction of Nod-Krai, even when the ship lets them off at a port blanketed in snow.

— — — — —

Stranded away from their homeland and with no Wild Hunt to fight, the Lightkeepers quickly run out of things to do. Illuga’s old pops had hoped to hold some proper meetings now that none of their members could wriggle out of it, but all they did was complain about how it was “so cold even my hind is a frozen slab of meat”. Beyond that, the uncertainty of whether they would get to return home hung over them like storm clouds. It didn’t take much convincing before Nikita joined his men at the local tavern for cards and Fire-Water.

To Illuga, alcohol has always been for toasting victories or drowning losses. In his life, these two things often occurred in tandem. But none of those have happened yet. How can he hit the glasses when one of their own is still out there fighting? Instead of following everyone else, he wanders down to the docks.

They were lucky to have escaped when they did. Barely an hour after they landed in Snezhnaya, more of those energy fields sprung up on the northern island. The largest one is, by Illuga’s best guess, right over Piramida.

He thinks of the apartment he rarely sleeps in, the mailbox stuffed with letters he hadn’t gotten around to. Some of the correspondence might be Flins’. Since he made the most regular trips down to Final Night Cemetery, his father had started handing Flins’ missives to him. And before he knew it, everyone was using Illuga’s mailbox as a waypoint to reach their most isolated member.

Flins, Flins, Flins. They had been pressed for time when they last spoke, and he hadn’t divulged more information than was necessary for the Lightkeepers to organize the evacuation. As for his team's plans to stop The Doctor, he had left Illuga with nothing but questions. Are they out there biding their time? Or had they already clashed with the Second Harbinger again? What is Flins’ role in their grand scheme? And above all else—is he safe?

Illuga’s sigh is a white plume in the frigid air. It’s the third day since they departed Nod-Krai. That peculiar, uneasy feeling that accompanied him over the glacial sea has only solidified. There is nothing he could do but stand at the edge of Snezhnaya, in anticipation of the moment those ominous blue domes came down.

He’d joined the Lightkeepers because he never wanted to feel helpless again. Shaking in terror until Nikita found him. Realising why Piramida’s banquets were affairs of solemnity. But how is he any different from who he was at all those early points in his life? Here he is, wringing his hands and waiting to be saved from imminent peril. Completely and utterly useless.

He wonders if he should have said something to Flins, that day in Nasha Town. The Ratnik, frustratingly, had a tendency to endanger himself without any regard for his mortality. Illuga is certain now that Flins isn’t human, but surely he isn’t something deific like Nod-Krai’s missing moon goddess. And the gods of Teyvat can die.

It’s none of Illuga’s business so long as they are colleagues, even colleagues with promises to reunite. But if Flins had been given a stronger reason to return, it might reign in some of his recklessness.

This is how Illuga knows he’s arrived at that point where it doesn’t matter if he's sober or wasted. He spins and trudges back into the town. Snow falls over his tracks. In a matter of seconds, it’s like no one ever waited at the docks at all.

— — — — —

Exactly a week after their arrival in Snezhnaya, it all comes to an end.

Illuga is in the midst of dragging an inebriated Rollon back to the refugee shelter when his senses prickle from a tidal surge of elemental energy. Even Rollon, lacking a Vision, sobers up at the shift in the air. They exchange a glance and run down to the docks.

He skids to a halt long before he’s at the water’s edge. In the distance, the sky over Nod-Krai has turned scarlet. A giant gash has ripped through the heavens, like someone slashed the flesh of it open and left it to bleed. Without warning, the rift snaps shut. The onlookers at the port town, both Snezhnayans and Nod-Krai refugees alike, hold a singular, shared breath.

Just as quickly as it disappeared, the rift bursts open again. The luminous curve of a full moon descends from beyond, white light flowering against its shadow. Lunar blue chases the red from the sky.

And finally, finally, the energy fields vanish.

“They did it.” Someone says. The words are a matchstick to oil. The crowd erupts like a bonfire, strangers cheering and embracing each other. Rollon reaches to sling an arm around Illuga’s shoulders, but his squad leader is already gone, weaving through the celebration with no jubilation on his face.

Illuga finds Nikita speaking to an officer from the Fatui. They notice his approach and pause to stare at him. Illuga has no idea why. He gets straight to business.

“Starshyna. Please allow me to be on the first ship back to Nod-Krai.”

Nikita’s eyebrows knit together. “Illuga—”

“Woah there, pal!” The officer pipes up over Nikita. He could not be any older than Illuga is, but there’s no mistaking the blood-red mask sitting askew in his auburn hair. “No ships can sail until we ascertain the situation in Nod-Krai. Even I'm still waiting to hear from my colleagues over there. What’s your hurry?”

Usually, Illuga is the one who smooths over the clashes between their organizations. If matters were left up to Nikita, disguised Lightkeepers would be messing with the Fatui every other day. But right now, the Harbinger’s callous, carefree tone makes him bristle with impatience.

“One of our Ratnik stayed to fight The Doctor.” Nikita cuts in before he snaps back. “We’ve been worried for days.”

“A Ratnik?” The Harbinger muses, rubbing at this chin. Eventually it rings a bell, because a measure of softness creeps into his dull eyes. “Oh, the one who fought Rerir with the Traveler.” He turns to Illuga with a smile that is almost cordial. “Hey, I get how you feel. But if I know anything, it’s that someone who could keep up with her would survive this fight.”

Illuga hasn’t met the esteemed Traveler, but even a Lightkeeper from the corners of Nod-Krai has heard of her accomplishments across Teyvat. The Harbinger is right, but why doesn’t it reassure him at all?

“Tell me your name,” The Harbinger continues. “I have to return to the capital soon, but I’ll make sure you’re the first person my men inform when the ships start running again.”

“It’s Illuga.” He answers. For the first and quite possibly only time in his life, he obliges a Fatuus with the deference they demand. “Thank you for your kind assistance, Lord Harbinger.”

— — — — —

Piramida is where Illuga stops first.

It’s a pleasant surprise to find the lifts still working. Or else, he would have had to scale the emergency ladders to restart their generators in the city. He takes this as a good omen.

In the absence of its inhabitants, the wind howls through the empty streets of the hilltop fortress. In their haste to evacuate, everyone had left something unfinished. The ink from an abandoned quill has seeped into some of Nikita’s paperwork. Uncleared plates and mugs litter the great mead hall. Illuga’s letters still spill from his mailbox. He goes through them in case there really is something for Flins, and finds none.

The other thing Illuga doesn't find in the city is Flins himself, but that’s to be expected. The senior Ratnik was notorious for going out of his way to avoid reporting to the headquarters. That, and his proclivity for sequestering himself in his lighthouse is the reason Illuga had taken on those supply trips and ended up befriending him.

Flins isn’t at Final Night Cemetery either. That still isn’t unusual, or so Illuga convinces himself. It hasn’t been that long after the battle. He must have remained in Nasha Town with everyone else.

Ineffa, the automaton from the Krumkake Craftshop, runs into Illuga at the harbour. Her evacuation point had been Natlan, so she and Aino had made it back faster than him. They exchange pleasantries and she tells him about the work they’re doing to get Nasha Town back on its feet. She pointedly avoids discussing the battle, but it does not slip his notice.

She leads him to the Curatorium of Secrets, where Jahoda takes over. The young employee offers him a drink. Or at least, she tries to before remembering that Nod-Krai's heroes have already burned through the Curatorium’s supply of tea leaves and coffee. She apologises as she sets an exquisite teacup of plain water down on the table, but all it does is elicit a laugh from Illuga.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed.” He tells her cheerfully. “Water is fine. In the years I’ve been visiting Mr. Flins at the lighthouse, he’s never served me anything else.”

Something in his words causes Jahoda to turn a dark shade of red.

“Miss Jahoda?” He prompts.

“...Flins! Right!” Her laughter is high and forced as she backs away from him, hands waving in front of her face. “He’s a funny guy, that one! I, uh, think I hear Ashru whining for food. Always forgetting that he’s eaten, silly cat. I gotta run but sit tight, Boss Nef and the others should be here soon!”

She disappears into the back of the agency, leaving Illuga alone to pick at her words and her peculiar behaviour. Surely, when Jahoda said ‘the others’ she had also meant Flins. As for her jumpiness… Flins is known for unsettling people that aren’t familiar with him. Of course. That had to be it.

Thus far in the journey, he has managed to keep the nagging disquiet at bay with the anticipation of reunion simmering beneath his skin. But with every long second that passes, the poisonous tendrils of it snake around his throat. He takes a sip of water and forces his racing thoughts to calm.

Finally, he hears the door to the Curatorium open. Four of Nod-Krai’s illustrious heroes enter. Varka first, larger than life as ever, his greeting preceding his person into the room. Then Nefer, with a smile devoid of its usual cunning edge. Lauma, not smiling at all. A blond young woman and a floating fairy who could only be the Traveler and her guide.

Flins isn't amongst them. A chill runs down Illuga's spine.

He rises, reaching out for a handshake. He stops short when he spots the items in the Traveler’s hands.

A silver spear with a lantern hanging from the blade. A second lantern, ornate and time-worn, divorced from its usual place at its owner’s hip. Neither of the lanterns are lit with their familiar blue flame.

Illuga is a Lightkeeper. He knows better than anyone in the room what it means when a Lightkeeper’s Oath Lantern has been separated from its bearer. He’s seen his fair share of these unclaimed lanterns during his tenure. Still, none of it really sinks in until someone says, “I’m sorry.”

Slowly, he receives the items from the Traveler. It suddenly feels like those occasions when he's had too much to drink, all of it going to his head and making everything woozy and blurry at the edges. During the rare occasions that Flins attended the banquets at Piramida, he’d always made sure to swap out alternate mugs of Illuga’s mead with water. Those were the only days Illuga could walk straight after and find his way back to his apartment without help.

Flins is not here, but Illuga hasn’t had anything to drink. So why does he feel like he can’t make it home on his own?

He searches their faces. None of them, not even Varka, will meet his gaze. The Traveler speaks up first. Her voice seems to come from a great distance, and he has to strain all of his senses to listen.

“Flins threw up a wall of azure flame to defend us from Dottore. He vanished after, and these were all that was left of him.”

She says nothing else, the rest of it relegated to the meaningful look she gives him.

Azure flame. (A long time from now, he will learn of that Snezhnayan folk tale from someone else.)

For now, he stares dumbly at the two lanterns that have gone out. What is it that Flins likes to say? Why peer into the Abyss when the Wild Hunt of Nod-Krai exists? But why peer at the Wild Hunt at all? Illuga is almost certain that if he peered into his own chest now, he would never emerge from the yawning depths of it.

His head scrambles to think of something, anything else. Helplessly, it circles back to Flins and his other favourite topics. Patience. Ghosts. Flattery. Master Illuga.

Ironically, it’s that side of Illuga that he’s always denied which kicks in when every other part of him is falling apart. He turns to the heroes who are watching him uncomfortably and salutes them.

“Thank you for returning this to us.” To me. “I need to report back to Piramida, so I’ll excuse myself first.”

The lie is a blatant one. Illuga had returned to Nod-Krai on a Fatui ship that was really a boat. It’d ferried no more than him, the helmsman and two officers dispatched to rendezvous with the Fourth Harbinger. There won’t be anyone at Piramida until tomorrow morning.

If they catch on, they are merciful enough to pretend otherwise. He leaves the agency, and emerges into a sunny afternoon that pierces his eyes. Light means the absence of the deadly mist that accompanies the Wild Hunt. It means no civilians to rescue, no ghastly abominations to vanquish. On an ordinary day, he would have relished in its buttery warmth.

Today, he loathes it. The wrongness of how bright it shines.

Illuga doesn’t head back to Piramida. He makes the long trek up to Final Night Cemetery. He cradles the lantern to his chest and balances the spear diagonally in the crook of his elbows. It’s the only way to prevent it from dragging on the ground. Flins’ elegant spear is longer than the Ratnik had been—is tall. Its length relative to Illuga’s height is downright embarrassing.

He’s halfway up the hill to the lighthouse when he spots a dark shadow moving between the gravestones. He stumbles up the rest of the way, boots squelching into the wet earth of the lonely island. His throat seizes around the shape of a name he doesn’t dare to cry.

It’s not Flins. There’s no one there. Just a trick of the light, or perhaps one of the phantoms that Flins often mentioned. The ones that Illuga can’t see. The run has taken him to the little awning where Flins used to wait for him on supply delivery days. But today, there’s no smiling Ratnik with his absurd glasses of water.

Illuga props Flins’ spear up against the base of the lighthouse. He stumbles into his usual spot on the left side of the metal bench. Flins preferred sitting on the right. He looks at the lantern in his hands.

Lightkeepers knew that any patrol they or their comrades went on could be the last. It was their way of life. They didn’t make promises to return, lest they couldn’t.

But Flins had. On that final day at Nasha Town, he had faced Illuga with clear eyes. His tone had been as frivolous as ever. But like a gemstone hidden within rough ore, there had been a seed of sincerity in it too, if one knew where to look.

“Just promise me you’ll come back in one piece, alright?” Illuga repeats his part of that conversation to the cold, flameless lantern.

But like the cliffhangers Flins used to end his stories with, all of Illuga’s questions to him will be left with an open ending now. They will never be completed.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, for the clouds shrouding the lighthouse cast the island into eternal night. He waits for the grief to find him. For the heat in his eyes to spill over, for the sobs to break free from his lungs.

It never does, because Illuga keeps expecting this nightmare to end. Any moment now, Flins will appear from the shadows and tease Illuga about the expression on his face.

Any moment now.

— — — — —

Illuga’s life has been fraught with farewells. The parents he can no longer remember. The "aunts" and "uncles" in Piramida who stopped returning. Captain Olsson and the rest of the original Nightmare Orioles. He had been inconsolable when he became old enough to attend the banquets of the great mead hall, to understand why the adults toasted with tears in their eyes. One loss after another, but none of them easier than the last.

Strangely, this one is easy. For all the anguish he has endured, for all that this funeral would turn Flins’ death into irrevocable fact, Illuga still hasn’t cried once.

Final Night Cemetery hasn’t been used as a burial ground in recent years. Most of the deceased remembered on the island are the Lightkeepers from that long-ago tragedy. But it only felt right for Flins to be laid to rest here, in the place that he had loved and cared for.

The Wild Hunt wouldn’t cease its villainy for a funeral, and certainly not for an enemy that had opposed it so fiercely. The patrols of the day are covered by newer recruits so that everyone who had known Flins in some capacity could gather on the island to pay their final respects.

In addition to the Lightkeepers, the friends Flins had made while defending Nod-Krai attend too. A few Knights of Favonius, those from the Curatorium, the Krumkake Craftshop, and the Frostmoon Scions. The Traveler and the fairy. A veiled maiden who couldn’t be anyone other than the Moon Goddess, even if everyone pretended not to notice.

A small part of Illuga rails at their presence. If there's so many of them, how is it that all they managed to bring back of Flins was a weapon and lantern? He knows he’s not being fair. These are the people Flins chose to give his life for. They are grieving the loss of a dear friend too.

A dear friend. The words sink like lead in his chest. It’s all Illuga and Flins had been to each other. Nothing more because they ran out of time.

A cluster of Frostlamp Flowers crown the gravestone. Illuga gets to his knees in the loam and gently sets the spear down in the grave. It’s all they have of him, since there is no body to bury.

Here lies Lightkeeper Flins. May he find eternal rest from the dreams of living.

Beside him, Nikita tosses in the first handful of dirt. As the rest of the mourners come forth, Illuga watches the silver spear vanish beneath clumps of brown earth. At his hip, the matching lantern to the spear feels heavier than ever.

If the Oath Lantern of a demised Lightkeeper could be recovered from the field, it would be rekindled and entrusted to another Lightkeeper to carry their legacy forward. But Flins’ lantern had been his own, its origins much like him—a carefully-guarded mystery.

Nikita and Illuga spent a long time discussing what to do with his silver lantern. They didn't have to follow protocol since it hadn't been issued by the organization. More than anything, they agreed that they couldn't pass it on to a new recruit.

Only Nikita knows just how much of the Lightkeepers’ operations had been buttressed by Flins in the years after the calamity that claimed the previous Starshyna. Only Illuga remembers his last moments before that fateful battle, the resolve that had burned in his eyes like lantern flame in the darkest of nights. The light he had carried was far too precious to be in the hands of someone who hadn't known him, who couldn’t truly understand the magnitude of his sacrifice.

In the end, they found a simple solution. Like Illuga’s own signal lamp from the logistics squad, if he was reluctant to relinquish it, why not keep hold of it? He had no need for a new Oath Lantern, but there was no hard rule stating that one Lightkeeper couldn’t carry two.

It wouldn’t really be a second Oath Lantern. Aedon hadn’t liked the standard-issue Oath Lanterns because they were too cramped for it. It definitely wouldn’t like Flins’ lantern.

The lantern would always belong to Flins. Illuga had no intention of rekindling its unmistakable azure flame. Besides, it isn't as if he knows how to.

“Did Flins ever tell you about himself?” Nikita asks Illuga, while they’re all leaving the cemetery.

“He would have.” Illuga admits quietly. “If he returned.”

Nikita heaves a world-weary sigh, setting his ushanka back on his head. “I don’t think he would mind if I told you in his stead.”

So there were people he had told. Illuga had suspected as much. But compared to everything else—those fishing poles stored beside the door to the lighthouse, the stories Flins would never finish, the words Illuga couldn’t say that day—is this one truth still important?

He shakes his head and for the first time since that day in the Curatorium, reaches for his smile again.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Illuga had loved Flins. Still does, broken promises, secrets and all. Still will, even if he had been human, slothsheep, or something else entirely.

— — — — —

Life resumes.

With the threat of ancient sinners and lunatic Harbingers gone, Nod-Krai’s legendary heroes return to their own destinies.

The Lightkeepers resume their longtime role as the region’s protectors against the Wild Hunt, but not without change. Flins’ passing had a rather unintended side effect. Their ranks have ballooned with new recruits seeking to follow in his footsteps. While Piramida’s population swells and almost bursts at the seams, Illuga and his squad retake Cliffwatch Camp and head to quell the evil in Kipumaki Cliff.

Bjorn perishes during that mission. There is no time for tears, but there is time to decide that he won’t lose anyone else. He sends the rest of his squad away by dispatching them for reinforcements.

Before she leaves, the Traveler makes a point of looking at Flins’ lantern on his hip. Illuga urges her to hurry and she turns away.

He heads in alone. The Scourge of Endless Decay conjures illusion after illusion to block his way. He stumbles past the phantoms of Bjorn, Olsson, and Nikita, and their false words.

But when Illuga sees Flins, it takes everything in him not to fall to his knees.

Flins—no, the phantom that is Flins grins at him. Everything is wrong about it. Flins wouldn't curl his lips with such cruelty. His eyes wouldn't gleam with such malice. But he’s so real, right there in front of Illuga. The blue of his hair, the opposing yellow of his eyes, the tattered edges of his coat. A fierce longing grips Illuga’s heart. It tugs at the fraying threads of Flins’ death, threatening to unravel him completely.

“Is this your idea of justice, Illuga?” The phantom mocks. “Recklessness and cowardice?”

Horror renders him mute. Illuga has no indignant rebuttal for this one. He’s never thought of it like that. Never. But how could the Scourge of Endless Decay manifest this illusion if it hadn’t found it from somewhere deep within him?

Without warning, a cluster of shadowy darts streak towards him. He reacts too late, and one slices him across his cheek. With a flash of light, Aedon emerges from Illuga’s lamp, bumping Flins’ lantern at his hip. The soft clink shakes him out of his stupor.

There is still no time for tears. Illuga hurries on, reunites with his squad and earns a well-deserved left hook from Anlefir. When everything is over, he sneaks out of the banquet at great mead hall and returns to his house.

He unhooks Flins’ lantern from his belt.

“I’m sorry I dishonoured your memory like that.” Illuga says to the lantern, fingers brushing the gauze over the cut on his face. “I know you would never say that to me.”

He falls asleep with it cradled in his arms. He had never touched the lantern when Flins was alive, and so doesn’t know if that azure flame had been warm, despite its colour.

But at least in his dreams, it is.

— — — — —

Flins and Sousi had long been the Lightkeepers’ pillars in southern Nod-Krai. In the wake of their successive demises, the other sergeant majors takes turns rotating in and out of Nasha Town. This goes on for a year, but pressure mounts on Nikita to appoint someone to fill their shoes.

Under Illuga’s leadership, Cliffwatch Camp has become a thriving outpost. With the threat in Kipumaki Peak gone, Wild Hunt activities in the north have calmed significantly. The people of Cliffwatch Camp loved joking that it wouldn't be long before it put Piramida to shame.

So of course there’s no one more suitable for the role of the new sergeant major at Nasha Town than Illuga himself. He already spent a lot of his time there as the Lightkeepers’ representative to the League. Nikita assured him that all the promotion really entailed was a fancier title and a modest salary bump.

His old pops lied.

The first days after his appointment blur together. All he does is run around trying to find his people. This far from headquarters, the Lightkeepers are a lot more individualistic.

But of Lightkeepers like that, who had been more notorious than Flins? Compared to him, the rest of these elusive Ratniki are nothing Illuga can't handle.

With the passage of time, Flins’ absence has settled into a companionable ache. But there are still things Illuga can't do. For one, he's always avoided the bookstore where he last spoke to Flins. In the first months after Flins’ death, he took massive detours just to avoid it. Quite a feat, considering that it sat along the northern entrance to Nasha Town.

One day, Nikita writes to him about Piramida’s growing adolescent population. There are still orphans like Illuga, but it's not all tragedy. Most of them are children of newer Lightkeepers. While penning his reply, Illuga recalls how he grew up on the records in the Lightkeepers’ archives. In hindsight, they weren't exactly reading material for children.

Illuga is proud of his past, all the steps he took to get where he is. But it didn’t mean that he thought that other kids should have to follow. The little ones of today's Piramida deserve to grow up with fairy tales.

It’s a slow afternoon at the bookstore. Illuga pays for his purchase, and the shopkeeper heads into the back to get everything wrapped up. He only realises where he is when he turns around and finds himself steps away from that terrace.

His eyes drift to the exact table where he had waited for Flins. Does he now stand where Flins had, watching him for an indiscernible amount of time until Illuga started to fidget from sitting too long?

He steps out into the sun-bathed terrace. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend Flins is with him. White-tipped hair curling in the wind. Elegant features suffused with mirth. Laughing… and huh, Illuga can’t actually remember what it sounds like anymore.

Finally, the grief that never found him at the cemetery finds him there.

There are no more glasses of water and strange tales waiting for Illuga at the lighthouse. Flins will never smile at him, never find him in his darkest moments to illuminate his way again. Nothing remains of Flins but the memories of their last moment together and Illuga’s own regrets.

Illuga had wasted too long waiting. For the perfect moment. The perfect words to express his heart. He hadn’t feared rejection, but he had feared appearing graceless in front of someone he admired for the opposite. Flins had always been eloquent, like the noble fae of the royal court that featured heavily in his stories.

But it would have only taken three words. And he knows Flins wouldn’t actually have picked on his clumsiness.

Now, Illuga will never know how Flins would have answered.

The Lightkeeper with the two lanterns is a familiar sight to the people of Nasha Town. Most recognise him because he is approachable and always willing to lend a hand. Only some are aware of the heavy responsibilities he shoulders. But everyone knew that he has already lost many of those dear to him, including the former owner of the beautiful silver lantern at his hip.

So when they see him at the terrace of Mimisbrunnr Books, face buried in the crook of his arms and shoulders trembling, they take great care not to disturb him.

— — — — —

Nikita’s health has been waning of late. When an urgent summon from Piramida comes in, Illuga fears the worst.

He drops everything and sprints down to Nasha Town’s harbour. As he feared, the ship that makes the daily journey to Piramida has already departed. His mind goes blank. No, not really. There’s a single thought. What if he doesn’t make it to see his old pops one last time?

By some miracle, Nefer happens to pass by. She takes one look at him, sums everything up in her brilliant head and arranges for a speedboat to ferry him.

The boss of the Curatorium of Secrets has always been friendly to Illuga. The League and their respective factions have them working closely together. But business is still business, and she’s never shied away from collecting payment for it. As he stumbles on board, Illuga promises to remunerate her for the transport when he returns.

She dismisses him with a wave of her hand.

“I owe someone the debt of a lifetime.” She tells him. “He can no longer collect from me, but I think it would please him if you did.”

Illuga doesn’t get the chance to answer, because the speedboat pulls away then. Out of habit, he reaches for his silver lantern. A slight warmth surprises him, perhaps from all that time it spent soaking in the midday sun. His fingers curl around it, the same way they yearn to around the palm of another hand.

It turns out Nikita isn’t dead, or dying.

A very bemused Ivar tells Illuga that a light shower had passed over Piramida in the morning. Nikita hadn’t noticed because he was holed up in his office. So when he got out at lunchtime, he slipped on wet steel and landed hard.

“No bones broken, just a couple of nasty bruises that should fade in two weeks.” Ivar explains, to Illuga’s immense relief. “But you know how his legs have been, Illuga. Between you and me, he needs to step down soon. Unlike you, your old man’s not one to leap recklessly into battle. But if push comes to shove and he has to take up his blade, I wouldn’t bet on him returning.”

In a place where everyone still remembers Illuga laying Flins’ spear into his grave, Ivar’s curt manner is a breath of fresh air. Their paths have not converged much in recent years, but their pasts are intertwined by the shared tragedy of Olsson’s Nightmare Orioles. After escaping the jaws of death together, what is a little honesty between two survivors?

“We’re all counting on you to talk him round.” Ivar strides away to see his next patient.

Illuga doesn’t think too much of Ivar’s request. He is Nikita’s adoptive son after all. Some words are better coming from family.

In the ward, Nikita is lying with his eyes closed, chest rising and falling beneath the covers.

“I know you’re awake, old pops.” Illuga says, standing over the cot with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Give an old man a break, you rascal.” Nikita answers without opening his eyes.

“You scared me to death!" Illuga berates him. "There was no ship for the next few hours. I almost had to swim here all the way here from Nasha Town.”

That gets Nikita’s attention. He cracks open one eye to give Illuga a slow once-over.

“Would you really have?”

“Of course not! Miss Nefer helped me find a boat.”

“Nefer, huh?” Nikita muses, pushing himself up on the bed. Illuga helps him to prop up a pillow for leaning against. “Why don’t you sit down, Illuga? I didn’t send you an urgent summon for fun. I want to talk to you about something.”

“What a coincidence.” Illuga replies, pulling a stool over. “I was planning on doing the same.”

“The look on your face tells me it’s about the same thing.”

“You’ve worked hard, old pops.” Illuga tells him softly. “I can’t even imagine how difficult things must have been after Mr. Sigurd’s death. But thanks to you, the Lightkeepers have gotten back on our feet.”

“I didn’t do it alone.” Nikita doesn’t mention names, but his eyes drift to Illuga’s silver lantern. “I was fortunate to have had some great people working with me. We also have many brilliant youngsters following in their footsteps. It’s time for someone else to take up the Starshyna’s mantle.”

“Do you have someone in mind?” Illuga leans forward. “Mr. Marushkin? Or Mr. Olav perhaps?”

“Fine Lightkeepers, both of them. But not them, you silly boy.” Nikita laughs. “You.”

Illuga’s eyes grow wide. “Me? No, but I—I’m not ready.”

It would be a lie to say that he hasn’t envisioned following in his father’s footsteps. But not now. Not yet. He’s still so young, and there's still so many people he wants to learn from.

“You are.” Nikita lays a hand on his shoulder. “There isn't a single Lightkeeper who would disagree. Just earlier your buddy Ivar asked when I planned on letting you take over. Oh, don’t make that face, Illuga. My greatest honour as Starshyna will be passing the torch to you.”

Illuga mutters a few excuses to escape the ward, and wanders through Piramida. He checks on the Lightkeepers on active duty. Answers some questions about his father’s health through the lump in his throat. He drops by the archive and is pleased to see some of the storybooks he sent missing from the shelves.

As the last of the sunlight fades, the lights of Piramida flicker on. The first time Nikita brought Illuga back to the city, he had been awed by the magnificence of it. After shivering alone in the night, all of that brilliance had seemed like it could triumph any darkness in the world.

Illuga’s steps take him to Nikita’s command post. A snort escapes him when he spots a familiar oil barrel still in place. That was where he had sat overnight as soon as he turned of age, waiting for Nikita to approve his application to become a Lightkeeper.

At dawn, a much younger him had scrambled to his feet when he heard the door opening. That had been the day Illuga met Flins, even if they wouldn’t exchange names until much later.

Carefully, Illuga turns the memory over in his head like the pages of an old book. He can still recall that fleeting encounter in vivid detail. The way the rising sun had limned Flins’ profile in rose-gold, before he hurried west and back into the night. He had spoken no more than a few words to the young man who was not yet a Lightkeeper. But Illuga remembers the velvet softness of his voice, his gentle murmur of “Go inside. The old man is waiting for you.”

Instinctively, Illuga reaches for his silver lantern. He sets it down on the barrel. Like this, he can pretend Flins is right there. He indulges in this, once in a while. Maybe it’s a fool's errand, but who’s around to care?

“Come to think of it,” Illuga reminisces. “That wasn’t the only time you encouraged me. There was that day at the graveyard too. I think I asked you if cowardice or being reckless was worse for a Lightkeeper. And you…” He furrows his brow, before laughing. “I can’t remember what you said. You always had that way of talking in circles. All those fancy words, but in the end you were just telling me to trust myself.”

Winter Iceleas are beloved by Lightkeepers for their ability to survive harsh winters. But even those resilient blooms needed sunlight to flourish again in spring. Which is why Illuga has always loved the nightingale in their stories more. That was what he wanted to be for the Lightkeepers: a soaring bird bearing a burning wick, leading them out of the dark.

“Starshyna.” He mutters to the lantern. “Would you have thought I would do a good job, Mr. Flins?”

The lantern does not answer him. But when it catches the moonlight that emerges from the clouds, it's almost as if it winks at him.

— — — — —

High tide sweeps across the sand bar, swirling around Illuga as he makes the trek up to Final Night Cemetery. He’d taken care to remove his coat before wading in, but his boots are beyond saving. Up ahead, the lighthouse that used to be a radiant beacon is dark. After all, Illuga hasn’t found any time in recent months to come by and top up the fuel.

When he’s safely out of the shallows, he pauses to put his coat back on. He straightens the brooch on the lapel and make quick work of the buckles and belts. The night-black garment stops just short of his ankles. Like the new responsibilities he carries, it’s much heavier than the brown coat folded at the back of his wardrobe.

The path to the island’s newest gravestone is familiar. Illuga gets to work immediately, pulling up weeds and wiping a cloth over the inscription to rid it of grime. When he’s satisfied, he uncorks a bottle of mead and pours it over the earth.

“It’s been a while, Mr. Flins.” He smiles wistfully. “You won’t believe how much has happened.”

His appointment to the apex of the Lightkeepers had been accompanied by a massive surge of Wild Hunt activity not seen since Sigurd’s time. But the new leader of the Lightkeepers was valiant, his steadfast disposition likened to that of the first Torchforger Solovei. With Starshyna Illuga at the helm, the Lightkeepers fought back fiercely against their mortal enemies, banishing the violet shadows from their homeland.

Storm clouds enshroud the small island. Within the shade, the survivor regales his fallen comrade with tales of victory.

“On the day we last saw each other,” Illuga tells the grave. “You told me that the master of the Wild Hunt had been defeated. Left without a leader, I suppose they rallied together for a final stand. But we were more ready than ever. My old pops—he’s doing well, by the way—already laid the groundwork before handing things to me. And your sacrifice was fresh in everyone’s minds. A single mention of you went a long way in boosting morale.

“The last reported sighting of the Wild Hunt was two weeks ago. We’re still patrolling our regular routes, still checking on the Tideseal Stones. But everyone is saying that this might be it. After several hundred years, Nod-Krai has overcome the Wild Hunt.”

Illuga kneels, and presses his forehead to the gravestone. Over the wish for Flins’ eternal peace.

“The people of Nod-Krai are saying that I’m a miracle.” He says with a shaky laugh. “I think I did a great job. But it wasn’t me who defeated the Rächer of Solnari. That was you.”

From his belt, Illuga unhooks his silver lantern.

“You deserved to see this victory, Mr. Flins. I hope I was able to share some of it with you, by carrying you with me.” Illuga runs his fingers over the silver frame. It’s warm to the touch. “But now that everything is over, it’s time that I let you lay down your duties.”

Gingerly, Illuga places Flins’ lantern down in front of the gravestone.

“I'll feel strange without the weight of your lantern.” He admits quietly. “But I’ll come visit often. It’s not like I have much else to do these days. Honestly, Flins... I’m afraid. Everyone is talking about the things they want to do now that we no longer have to fight. But I’ve never known anything outside of fighting.

“There is something I never got to tell you. I’ve only wanted one thing in my life, and that was you.” The confession hangs in the silence between the graves. Illuga bows his head. “I don’t know if you felt the same, but if you were still here, I would have pursued you until you said yes. That would have given me something to do, now that we’ve put our blades down.

“I wish you were still here, Flins. You used to give me guidance. Without you, I’ve lost my way again.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that to happen. The Azure Flame’s purpose has always been to guide lost souls.”

Illuga’s head snaps up, and he shoots to his feet. He turns, sweeping his eyes over the lonely gravestones, the Frostlamp Flowers lit by moonlight, the tide whispering secrets against the shore. There’s no one here.

There’s a low chuckle behind him.

“Not that way.”

Illuga’s heart seizes in his chest.

That voice. Archons-know how desperately he’s tried, in the years that have passed, to remember it. The sound of its rich baritone, its waltz-like cadence and the way it lilted as it spun tales no less grandiose.

It should have vanished into the passage of time. How does he recognise it?

“Won’t you look at me, Master Illuga?”

Slowly, slowly, Illuga turns around.

The silver lantern is lit, azure fire dancing within the glass. And holding it, standing in front of the gravestone, is a tall man. He’s very conspicuously naked, but Illuga can't look anywhere other than his face. The wind rises, tugging playfully on hair the same colour as the lantern flame. A bright pair of yellow eyes, like candles in the dark, gaze back at him with all the fondness in the world.

Illuga is trembling. He can scarcely believe what he’s seeing. Years of experience tell him that whatever is standing in front of him isn’t an abomination of the Wild Hunt. Still, he takes a step back.

“What are you?”

“Has it been that many years for you to have forgotten my face?” The man cocks his head, amused. “Very well then, I suppose it is only proper to redo the introductions. Greetings, Starshyna Illuga. I am Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins. You were acquainted with me by my last name.”

“You’re not. I buried him.” Illuga points to the dirt they’re both standing on. “Right here.” With a twirl of his wrist, he manifests his own spear and thrusts it forward. “Stop wearing his face before I make you!”

“Ah, my dearest young master, when you said you would pursue me, I didn’t think this was what you had in mind.” The man doesn’t flinch when the edge of the spear grazes his neck. His eyes don't waver from Illuga's fury. “Pray tell, when you wished that I was still here, in what capacity did you desire my presence?”

“I wished he was still here.” Illuga spits back. “I don’t know who you are.”

The man shuts his eyes.

“I can only imagine the horrors you have witnessed, for you to now regard me with such suspicion.” The man presses a palm over his chest and looks at Illuga once more. “I ask that you allow me to prove my identity to you. Please, tell me how.”

Illuga hesitates. Everything that he has ever wanted could be right in front of him. It would take only a few words to dispel that last veil of doubt. But it could all fall apart, just as quickly as it burst into being. He could become that lonely man talking to graves and lanterns again. He’s so afraid he wants to run.

Yet, Illuga is the nightingale with the burning wick, isn’t he? The bearer of light in the dark, of hope in despair. Who else would dare try in a situation so impossible, if not him?

“On the last day we spoke, I asked him to make me a promise. What was it?”

The man visibly relaxes, but his smile is heavy with sorrow.

“To come back in one piece.”

The breath Illuga hadn’t known he’d been holding escapes him.

“I apologize for taking so long, Illuga.”

“Flins.” Illuga gasps. Warm tears are already spilling down his cheeks. His voice shatters on its next words. “I’ve missed you so much.”

He leaps forward, throwing his hands around Flins. Flins steadies them both, folding his large frame over Illuga’s, tucking the younger male’s face against his shoulder.

— — — — —

After the tears have run their course, the awkwardness of Flins’... state of undress catches up to them.

Illuga leads them both towards the lighthouse. Since there hadn’t been anyone to take over after his disappearance, the Lightkeepers had left Flins’ belongings where they were. His signature black coat had been lost in that battle, but there were other things in his wardrobe.

He emerges dressed in a deep blue tailcoat. Illuga stares, his throat going dry.

“It is wrinkled and old,” Flins sniffs, displeased. “I would have pressed it out, but I presumed you were impatient to see me.”

“It’s not that!” Illuga surprises himself with the force of his denial. He coughs to hide his embarrassment. “It’s just… I’ve never seen you in anything other than black.”

“I could say the same about you. Or rather, the opposite. I have never seen you in black.” Flins’ eyes roam over Illuga, lingering on the Starshyna brooch.

“When I first put this on,” Illuga admits to him, avoiding the scorching intensity in his gaze by fiddling with one of the cuffs. “I looked in the mirror and thought, ‘I look like you’.”

"That could not be further from the truth." Flins speaks up firmly. Illuga tries to imagine what the other man sees. He hasn't managed to grow taller, but his shoulders might be wider. The edges of his eyes have begun to crinkle just a little. "You have become a great man. I am but a shadow cast by your radiant light."

"Ah, I've forgotten how much you liked to flatter." Illuga grumbles, but he sounds too choked up for it to land with any real heat.

"With you, I speak nothing but sincere truth." Flins closes the distance between them, laying a gentle hand on Illuga’s cheek. His touch is featherlight, thumb sweeping over the faded scar. "What happened here?"

“It happened a long time ago. I was careless.” Illuga doesn’t say more. There will be time to talk about the phantom that twisted his memory in the future. “Enough about me, what happened to you?”

After so many years, Illuga gets all the answers he sought. Flins is one of the Fae, his true nature the azure flame in his lamp. During the battle against The Doctor, he had cast out his flames to shield his allies. But he consumed too much of himself, and the flame had all but gone out.

“I wasn't truly dead.” He tells Illuga. “Just barely alive. I didn't even have enough left for a few embers.”

“You came back.”

“Some old legends claim that the Fae grant wishes.” Flins’ enigmatic, ancient smile tugs at his lips. He leans down, pressing their foreheads together. “That is not true. However, it doesn’t mean that we don’t hear them. You made a wish to the Azure Flame that escorts the lost for guidance. And I heard that voice so dear to me. I am unable to make dreams come true, but I would never refuse you. Especially if all it takes is my reawakening.”

Illuga's heart is a caged bird in his chest, struggling to break free. “Just how much did you hear?”

“Not nearly enough.” A mischievous spark lights his eyes. He encircles Illuga's waist with his free hand. “Care to tell me again, Illuga? That thing you couldn't say before.”

The waves are gentle upon the shore, the moonlight bright in their eyes. That perfect moment Illuga has been waiting for arrives, and yet none of it matters to him as he cradles Flins’ face within his hands. He presses their lips together, and finally gets to say those long-awaited three words.