Chapter Text
Despite being a fae, Flins was deplorably bound to the natural order of things.
Though his urges differed from a human's, as did their… manifestations, Flins was not exempt from those so-called instincts or goddess forbid, ruts. It was at odds with his nature, though it was new enough of a phenomenon that it only started affecting him after his slumber. For the people of Nod-Krai, it increased and ebbed with the flow of kuuvhahki, and their sensitivity to it. There were no guidelines so to say, only base instincts and gut feelings. His human form allowed little of his mismatched instincts to bleed through and he was all the more glad for it, if only to avoid the same situations he's caught more than one fellow Ratnik in.
All in all, Flins felt immense relief from the fact that he was not affected, and on the rare occasions he happened to be, it would seamlessly blend in with his made-up scheduled ruts to justify a lapse in judgement.
If this arrangement had the benefit of making him seem more human and garnering sympathy from his colleagues, then it was merely a happy coincidence.
However, this belief that Flins could control himself well enough to not inconvenience himself but pretend to be inconvenienced for the sake of blending in, was thoroughly shattered the day Varka sought him out, his scent syrupy thick even in the frigid air.
Flins could count on one hand the number of regular visitors his little island saw, though this was before the formation of their small alliance. There was of course Illuga, who had taken it upon himself to take care of Flins and check-up on him as well as deliver any correspondences from Piramida. Flins enjoyed his company immensely, though Illuga had the habit of worrying far too much which might have led to one or two… awkward moments of having his real form manhandled as he pretended to be absent.
Illuga had come to the conclusion that Flins must have had a special private room for his ruts for reasons that evaded Flins entirely, considering the lighthouse was as spacious as a matchbox and the layout of the underground was rather straightforward.
There were a few others who stumbled in more by accident, such as the young Jahoda, and the Miss Moonchanter who somehow had the uncanny ability to tell when a real rut hit Flins, and left offerings at his doorsteps through means of a deer or some other woodland creatures, which Flins at least appreciated it. It meant they were without scent beyond that of an animal's and allowed him to indulge in his version of consumption with little fear of a bond.
Yet this was nothing compared to Varka, who somehow decided showing up to the lighthouse was to be a common occurrence. On a desolate land where only the dead or the soon-to-be followed Flins, Varka was neither. He was as alive as the moon, warm as a hearth. He was alive by virtue of his strength, of his beating heart, one Flins hoped would not cease anytime soon.
Still Varka followed.
This time his footsteps matched Flins’, slow and sure. He smelled as he always did, which to Flins meant little seeing as he could never pinpoint what it was. The only difference was how strong it was. Even when it wasn’t, it tended to stick to Flins’ clothes, linger in his flame like freshly absorbed energy.
Varka’s scent was usually a tame thing, fresh and mellow, so very different from the ice that seemed to intertwine with most people's scents. Perhaps this was just common to all Mondstadters, even if Favonius Keep tended to make Flins forgo breathing entirely. He appreciated the feeling of his chest expanding, though he didn’t necessarily need to, nor did he have the anatomy for it. The mingling stench of sweaty alphas and omegas alike just proved to be unpleasant enough for it to be a worthy sacrifice.
Varka's gloved hand brushed by accident against the one laying lax at Flins’ side, and Flins’ hand around his lantern spasmed almost unconsciously. Varka was a dangerous man to have as an enemy. His strength and determination made him a formidable foe, let alone the list of other qualities he possessed that made his titles all the more impressive.
Flins was starting to think he was perhaps twice as lethal as a friend.
“What brings you to my humble abode, Grandmaster?” Flins watched around for any disturbances, but the shore was devoid of any presence but theirs. He almost sighed in disappointment at seeing none. Flins found he rather enjoyed Varka’s expressions when ghosts tended to swarm them.
“Oh, just this and that,” Varka coughed a beat too late. Flins glanced at him curiously and only found a mildly embarrassed expression that soon melted into his usual smile. How intriguing. “You know how it is.”
Flins chuckled. “I am afraid I do not. I am only carried as far as duty needs me or if I am taken by something rare. But I am sure a knight like yourself would be generous enough to explain to this humble ratnik what… This and that entails?”
“Ah, well. It's kind of a long story, hahaha… I just came here to— I just wouldn’t want to take up more of your time than necessary, that’s all.” Varka scratched at the back of his neck, looking for all the world like he'd rather fight the Rächer of Solnari barehanded than elaborate. Sometimes Flins wondered how a man who was considered on the older side by human standards and towered over him by half a head, could act so bashful.
It was quite endearing.
“You needn’t worry then. I have all the time in the world for one,” Flins said. Turning to Varka, he added, “Especially if you are the storyteller.”
Varka stumbled on thin air and careened forward, his big frame somehow managing to stay standing by sheer force of will. His cape flapped behind him, accessories jingling and knocking against his armor with heavy clings. Flins tried, in vain, to suppress his amusement.
“Hey, don't laugh. I could've gotten hurt.”
When Flins merely hummed in reply, voice stuttering on another laugh and his doubt evident, Varka covered his face with a hand. Flins still saw the spots of red high on his cheeks and the grimace he made.
“Seriously, it's just not my day,” Varka insisted.
“It looks like it,” Flins acquiesced. “I would not mind if you shared your woes, my friend.” And as if it was all the permission he needed, Varka started talking.
“It’s nothing— Oh, hell. Who am I kidding. First, Anselm drops off a stack of reports for me to read, then Lohen disappears off for some Wild Hunt, well, hunting. It’s the third time in twelve hours. It’s nothing new, but I had plans for him! Then Albedo of all people tries to tell me to go see y—” Vark cut himself off so abruptly his teeth clacked. “Sorry, I shouldn’t complain so loudly, haha. I guess I am not feeling as well as I thought today.”
“Mmh. I believe this is the first time I’ve heard a word of complaint out of you in all the time we’ve known each other,” Flins said thoughtfully. He peered at Varka’s flushed face. It looked like more than embarrassment. “Are you quite alright?”
“Sorry,” Varka said again, quieter. “I should go—!”
Flins clicked his tongue. “Please refrain from moving, sir Varka.” He adjusted his gloved hand over Varka's forehead properly, finding it warmer than he expected even through the material of his gloves. It wasn’t particularly thick, but it wasn't thin enough to allow this much heat to seep through. Flins’ hand still had the advantage of remaining at the same temperature, even if it was on the cooler side. It allowed him to have better baselines for normal heat levels for humans.
Varka currently seemed to be on the higher end of it. He stood with his back ramrod straight and his lips set in a thin line, looking at everything around them but Flins. His hands were behind his back, hidden from view.
“You feel a little warmer than expected,” Flins remarked. “Perhaps it would be best for you to rest here tonight.”
“Haha, what? No, I have to, uh, do stuff. At the Keep.” Varka cleared his throat. “I have those reports I was talking about and uh, they will probably wonder where I went. So.”
“I can send a missive,” Flins said dismissively. “It looks like you are coming down with something. It would put my mind at ease to monitor your condition myself, Grandmaster. If something were to happen to you on the way back, I wouldn't be able to forgive myself.”
Flins didn’t mention that he could escort the Grandmaster to the Favonius Keep, if he so wished. Nor did Varka insist on a trek back, despite him being able to fend off an army with his eyes closed and a fever melting his brain. Instead, they stood in the middle of the path, Flins’ hand to Varka’s forehead and his lantern illuminating them in a circle. Like this, Varka’s eyes looked terribly soft, if not a little lost.
“It wouldn’t be proper of me to impose,” Varka said, hushed.
“You wouldn’t be imposing,” Flins said. “I am offering.”
Varka’s eyes found Flins’, then he looked away again. His scent turned acrid, the freshness of it disappearing behind a curtain of something like stale wine. Flins’ flames leapt at the glass, as if asking to reach out and purify it like abyssal fragments. Strands of blonde hair tickled the bare parts of Flins’ wrist.
“I have better rations than the last time you visited,” Flins encouraged with a smile. “Surely you wouldn’t refuse me a meal, at the very least?”
At the mention of food, Varka’s stomach growled. He froze, face steadily turning crimson. Flins laughed.
“If you insist,” Varka mumbled, turning toward the top of the hill. Red was an attractive color on him. “I might have forgotten to eat.”
Flins let his hand fall at last, only to let it hover on the small of Varka’s back. Varka jumped about a foot in the air. The laughter Flins swallowed could have shaken the heavens.
“If you are worried about ghosts, you needn’t be,” Flins said as they walked, fully aware it was not the cause for Varka’s agitation. “They seem to be at peace for now."
“Ghosts, sure,” Varka said distractedly. His scent turned pungent enough for Flins to notice the change, though he refrained from letting it show. The side of Varka’s neck was covered in sweat, the edge of a scar peeking from above his collar. Flins ran the flat of his tongue against an aching fang. “Say, friend. Has the lighthouse always been this far?”
“Oh dear, does it feel that way? Perhaps your condition is more dire than I expected,” Flins’ hand rested more firmly against Varka’s back, and he moved a step closer to shoulder Varka’s weight. “Please lean on me, sir Varka. I would prefer not to carry you all the way uphill if you lost consciousness.”
Flins expected the contact to ease Varka’s agitation, but it only seemed to heighten it. Flins’ lantern rattled noisily as Varka leaned on him, albeit stiffly, breathing labored and strangely feverish. Flins started to wonder if perhaps the proximity was detrimental to Varka’s condition.
Varka had impeccable self-control. Of this, Flins had no doubt. Truthfully, Varka was one of the few alphas Flins met who seemed to have every part of themselves leashed down. It came as no surprise that someone as well-traveled and capable as Varka had no trouble with territory and was happy to take as little space as possible. Nod-Krai had been on the better end of a deal, as Varka had admitted once, for no one stayed long enough to make a piece of it their own.
Then again, to most Varka smelled neutral or even sweet, discussions of his soothing scent had reached Flins’ ears shortly after his arrival. Coupled with his readiness to touch everyone and anyone, it led to the unfortunate assumption that Varka was simply an omega capable of leading and only served to put stars of admiration in his troops’ eyes and even in some of his fellow Ratniki.
Flins tended to laugh at the notion, but he had wondered himself on more than one occasion if it was true. As more of Varka’s scent permeated the air, tinged with what he now recognizes as guilt and tightly restrained aggression at the presence of another alpha so close, Flins had the distinct impression he had made the smallest of miscalculations in that regard. He had no time to dig into it either.
The weight against his side suddenly turned heavy.
“Varka?”
Varka groaned but did not reply. His skin was uncomfortably hot where he was plastered against Flins’ side. He slumped further on Flins, who allowed himself a little burst of power to stay upright under his bulk.
“Varka,” Flins insisted once more. When no reply was forthcoming and Varka’s scent only intensified, Flins closed his eyes, and in a terribly human fashion, sighed.
Varka’s rut was starting, and Flins had no idea what to do with him.
Flins decided the best course of action was to get the Grandmaster back to the Favonius Keep.
It was the most logical option. Nasha Town would offer comfort, but none of the safety, and Flins wasn’t sure Varka wanted everyone to be privy to such personal matters. He would be better off at his camp surrounded by his people, safe between those who knew of his habits. Flins tried not to think of how Varka spent previous ruts, if he had someone to accompany him during it, someone to give him what he needed and—
Flins shook his head, dispelling the thought.
His plan sounded easy enough in theory. The distance was normally not an issue for Flins but looking at the unconscious man sweating through his unused sheets and making the small space saturated with the scent of an alpha in rut, it proved to be much harder to put in practice.
The trek up to the lighthouse and then to Flins’ rooms was a test of both his strength and his patience. Whereas Flins had little trouble managing his instincts being at odds on a day-to-day basis, it seemed to be an entirely different matter when it came to Varka. The knight had buried his face in Flins’ neck, rough pants warming the collar of his cape, seeking a scent he would not find. He was incoherently mumbling under his breath, at times Flins’ name falling from his lips. Flins’ gums itched with the urge to sink into flesh, and his flame was an unsettled blaze that threatened to bend the lantern’s metal and break through the glass. He’d never felt like retreating back to his real body as urgently as he did now.
He’d managed to disrobe Varka of most of his heavy accessories, leaving him only in his chestplate in terms of armor. He settled him on the lone bed in the corner. It was barely big enough to accommodate Varka’s bulk, but it held well. Flins had then taken off some of his own clothing, mainly his cape and coat, an itch he would only be able to rid himself of if he left this form crawling under his skin. Blue spilled out of Flins’ lips on the exhale.
Flins watched the flames fade, nonplussed.
Flins had never reacted like this before. He was at best fascinated by how pheromones influenced humans, and at worst wrinkling his nose at the displays of vulnerability. He couldn’t imagine letting his own scent announce every bit of his emotions as soon as a rut reared its head, or let them be dictated by another’s. Varka was terribly honest even with his scent, for all that Flins could not decipher what caused his distress despite it.
Regardless of Flins’ personal… feelings on the matter, there would, of course, be no problem with letting Varka spend his rut in his little room. While humbly furnished, it would serve its purpose. Flins needed no sleep nor sustenance, and he could leave the premises long enough to afford Varka some privacy while he… rode out the worst of it. Something uneasy that felt awfully like his alpha protested at the thought, as if Varka being in his space was something unpleasant to be rid of and discarded, while another, much louder voice that Flins was overly familiar with, was demanding Varka remains, that he be chained to Flins’ if need be.
Flins had so rarely encountered such a visceral reaction to another in his long life that it felt entirely foreign to him.
Varka groaned suddenly, lurching upright. Flins warily watched him from his position at the foot of the bed. He doubted he would be a match to Varka’s raw strength, especially uncontrolled, if only because fighting back would require a finesse in wielding his power that Flins did not believe himself capable of currently. Varka’s eyes remained closed, and he doubled over, clutching at his skin with a pained sound.
“Varka,” Flins tentatively called.
Varka blinked dazedly, nose twitching. “Flins…? Where…”
“The lighthouse. Pardon me for the lack of decorum, but you seem to be in rut,” Flins said, keeping it short in case Varka’s lucidity was short-lived, which it seemed to be. The acrid smell Flins now knew was guilt flared tenfold with it, and Flins swallowed a hiss. “How would you like to proceed?”
“I should go,” Varka murmured weakly, yet he made no move to leave. Curiously enough, there was none of the aggression Flins from earlier, and he dared approach closer. Varka swayed forward, toward Flins instead of away, Flins noted with muted surprise. Tentatively, he reached out and settled a hand on Varka’s forehead for the second time that day, brushing his damp bangs away from his face. His eyes were barely open, azure blue swallowed by pools of black. Flins swallowed instinctively.
Then Varka lunged.
Flins’ breath was punched out of him as he suddenly found himself staring at the rusty metal plaques that made up the ceiling of his room, a view soon covered by Varka’s intense blue eyes and bared canines. A bead of sweat rolled down a scarred cheek and settled on his top lip. Flins watched him warily. It was not as though Varka could hurt him, but it did not mean Flins wanted to hurt Varka if it came down to it.
Like this, Flins was surrounded by Varka’s scent, intense and overwhelming. Flins ceased breathing, feeling untethered as the familiar weightlessness in his limbs that signaled he was dematerializing grew stronger. He was unused to the lack of control, and an uncomfortable feeling crawled up his spine.
Varka didn’t move for a long moment. He leaned forward with his hands on either side of Flins’ shoulders, straddling Flins’ with his thighs splayed open, a growl rumbling in his throat. Varka opened his mouth wider, cracked lips parting to reveal rows of sharp teeth. Flins’ fingertips crackled dangerously. They stared at each other in tense silence. Watching, waiting.
Just as he considered sending a surge of electro to free himself, Varka’s arms suddenly gave out, and he fell on Flins with a loud thud. Flins coughed, more reflex than anything else. Varka’s face connected with his neck with a muted crack. Flins strongly suspected Varka’s nose just took the burnt of the fall, but Varka himself was unconcerned as he pushed his face in the crook of Flins’ neck, and this time the lack of obstructions led to Varka licking his neck, tongue laving over where a scent gland should be almost greedily. His teeth scratched the pristine pale skin, hips rutting against Flins’.
Flins stiffened. He closed his eyes, and this time resigned himself to it. Settling his palm over Varka’s nape, he sent little tendrils of electro, strong enough to perhaps settle Varka for a few hours. Varka tensed again, this time for entirely different reasons Flins found, as a little moan escaped him before he turned pliant.
Moments later, he was out like a light again.
Right on top of Flins.
Staring at the ceiling once more with the weight of a knight with twice his muscle mass, Flins tried to ignore the damp hardness pressing against his groin, the cooling patch of saliva on his neck.
“For your own sake, I hope you have no recollection of this, Varka,” Flins murmured to a passed out Varka. The man twitched from residual electro, his hardness rubbing against Flins’. With another sigh, he retreated into his lantern for the time being, and swore to never take off a single article of clothing in Varka’s presence ever again.
Taking Varka back could wait until Flins could keep his form stable.
Flins eventually managed to take Varka back to Favonius Keep the same night.
It took a considerable amount of his strength to both carry Varka and to keep them out of sight. He refused to even consider the option of playing at being human currently, seeing as Flins’ for the first time in a little over two hundred years, needed to concentrate to keep his form. Instead he had slung Varka over his shoulder and kept him still with his arm wrapped around his waist. Flins fervently hoped Varka’s scent would not put them at risk of detection, holding his breath as he sneaked past Piramida’s scattered lightkeepers and anyone who would recognize either of them.
Flins walked as fast as he could, all the way to the place where he knew the knights were stationed, scaling the side of a mountain to overlook it. Varka was still passed out by the time Flins set him down and crouched, trying to find a vantage point that’ll prove sufficient to look through their options, huffing when Varka groaned behind him. One of the knights standing guard stilled, warily watching his surroundings. Flins pettily sent another charge of electro down Varka’s spine, and the man went quiet again.
Safe to say, Flins’ seemingly bottomless well of patience had finally run dry.
The Favonius Keep was strategically established in a valley overlooking the ruins of Amsvartnir, halfway between Piramida and Cliffwatch Camp. Tents were scattered around the narrow path, opening up to a larger area where the Grandmaster’s tent sat. It would have been a weakness to pick such a location for anyone who did not have the Knight of Boreas as their leader.
Regardless, it meant it was both easier and harder for Flins to sneak in. Easier, because the Knights believed in Varka enough that even with the earlier mishap, their guard remained lax; and harder, because Flins’ mind was still a battlefield he did not enjoy navigating through. He had to brutally tear himself away from Varka once he laid him down none too gently on the lone unmade bedroll with furs and pillows scattered about, the scent of him so potent Flins had the sudden urge to retch.
“Flins.”
Flins stilled, his lantern hovering in front of him, waiting for him to return. Slowly, he glanced back at Varka and was startled to see his blue eyes open and fixed on him.
“Don’t stay away from me,” Varka said seriously, eyes shining with something Flins dared not think about.
Flins huffed a humourless laugh. He looked away. “That’s a bold request to make considering your actions tonight—”
A snore interrupted him. Flins’ eyes dragged to where Varka was passed out again.
With a flash of blue light and something that sounded awfully like an elegant curse in a language foreign to all, Flins disappeared.
Varka sought him out two weeks after the incident at the Final Night Cemetery.
Flins was in Nasha Town for reasons that had little to do with Varka, except for when it had everything to do with the seed the Knight of Boreas planted in Flins’ core. He had spent most of his time in his lantern, trying desperately to quell the irritation from his alpha and the complaints of his nature urging Flins to act. He only came out when it was time for his patrols, the usual ghostly uproars or correspondence with the HQ.
He looked at the timepiece he kept in his pocket, and frowned lightly at the time. Flins rarely kept track of it, except for the necessary supplies run he needed reminders to keep up with, but now he started to carry a newly repaired timepiece from his collection for reasons he would not disclose, lest someone catches wind of it and announces to all that Flins’ is keeping track of the hours without Varka.
This was his first time around the city in quite a while, and it was nowhere near the time it would be socially acceptable for a ratnik to end up at the Flagship.
To say Flins had been restless would be an understatement, considering he had started rubbing his own scent around the entirety of the lighthouse and even the occasional gravestone where Varka’s scent lingered. Flins felt he had more in common with the dog on his island than any human lately.
It did not help that Flins was still wary of his own self, his form flickering at odd intervals. It was perhaps careless of him to make an appearance when he did not know the extent of this strange affliction, but he supposed a little risk would not be amiss, if only it would resolve this situation.
“Flins.”
Flins smiled and turned, pleased to find Nefer in front of him. They did not have the chance to cross paths often, and though her presence put Flins’ wits to the test, it was a worthwhile endeavor to let her run around in circles around him sometimes. Nefer was sharp enough that it was inevitable she would catch on, but for now Flins’ source of amusement was still very well present.
He bowed slightly, a hand over his heart. “Miss Nefer, what a surprise it is to see you on this fine morning.”
Nefer raised an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed. “I’m afraid I cannot say the same. Your presence tends to spell trouble, and your dedication to hindering my apprentice’s training is not doing you any favors.” Looking around, she picked a direction and started walking. Flins fell into step with her.
“Such harsh accusations from the most renowned information broker of our little no-man’s land,” Flins sighed. “Surely my willingness to save the young Jahoda from a terrible fate is not offensive enough an act to garner this kind of suspicion?”
Nefer veered left sharply, up a narrow staircase that Flins knew led to the back entrance of the Curatorium. “As I've previously stated, your interference only allows her to slack off on her training. A little danger around your…mausoleum wouldn’t hurt to keep her on her toes.”
“Ah, but then what kind of Lightkeeper would I be, were I to allow a civilian to get hurt?” Flins clicked his tongue. “It would bring shame upon the title I’ve so graciously been awarded.”
Nefer opened the door, and though her back was to Flins’ he knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was rolling her eyes.
“The Lightkeepers must have been short on personnel if they thought you of all people deserved it,” Nefer sighed. She sat down on one of the couches and crossed her arms. “But I suppose the fight against the Wild Hunt is of paramount importance, no?”
Flins shook his head sadly as he took a seat facing her. “Your words are as cutting as the cold winters of Snezhnaya, miss Nefer, and I am but a helpless traveler lost in one of its blizzards. But indeed, in such a desperate situation any helping hand is a hand worth shaking, don’t you think?”
Nefer hummed lightly, glancing to where Ashru usually napped. Flins almost frowned when he noticed the empty spot. It seems no amount of treats will warm up an animal to him, after all.
“Oh, of that I am fully aware. I’ve just had a certain client shake it rather enthusiastically without even hearing my price. Quite the character, who certainly cannot afford the cost of his request. It’s a rather foolish decision to go through with it, isn’t it?”
Flins arranged himself more comfortably on the cushions, hiding the lower half of his face in his collar. “It certainly seems so. In my opinion, one should always know the price of things before they decide if it is of any worth to them,” he said, keeping his voice level lest Nefer decided her show of kindness was over.
After all, it was not everyday that Miss Nefer decided to surrender information out of her own free will. Flins had a feeling he would rather enjoy the unfolding conversation.
Nefer eventually did something akin to ‘kicking him out’, which Flins took in with considerably more grace than anyone would. It was a small victory he allowed her after a bountiful harvest in Flins’ favor. Surely, even someone with impeccable manners like Flins could overstay his welcome?
Nefer’s blank face said all about her appreciation for his attempt at levity.
He didn’t find Varka as much as trip over him.
Almost.
Flins’ foot knocked against a pair of shoes sticking out from around the corner of a small alleyway Flins often took as a shortcut, the gold metal toe of high black boots too familiar to mistake for anyone but Varka’s.
“Is this your attempt at an ambush, Grandmaster?” Flins’ voice was light and unhurried. “If so, I will have to refrain from commenting on the declining quality.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and waited. A sigh, a rustle of cloth, then Varka appeared. Flins blinked, golden eyes widening slightly.
Varka looked worse for wear and smelled of nothing at all.
He stood with his head lowered, looking at Flins from behind his messy bangs. Despite the shining light of a clear afternoon, shadows found a resting place under Varka’s eyes; over his cheeks and chin in a thin layer of stubble. For a long moment, neither of them said anything.
Then Varka said, “Flins,” voice cracking on the lone syllable, and it rang louder than any of the prayers for help desperate souls made. Flins’ voice was stuck somewhere around his throat, in the depths of his flame, bound behind glass and metal. He did not reply.
“Forgive me, sir Flins. I did not mean to ambush you,” Varka started speaking, and Flins’ felt his hands twitch at the practiced solemn tone he used. Shame curled around Varka's every word. A restless itch started to build under Flins’ skin. “I was on my way to find you, but it seems you beat me to it.”
“At ease, Varka,” Flins said. “I merely said so in jest.”
Varka nodded, a quick, choppy movement that made Flins internally wince. Flins subtly scented the air and were he less polite, would have recoiled at the lack of scent from Varka, only the indistinguishable mix of Nasha Town assaulting his senses.
“I see,” Varka replied awkwardly, as if he had never been on the receiving end of Flins’ wit or his teasing. “That said, please allow me to extend a humble invitation to you. I would like to properly address certain things, if you are, of course, amenable.”
Flins simply looked at Varka in silence. The longer he took to reply, the more blank Varka’s face became. Flins scented the air again, mildly irritated.
“Very well,” Flins said. “Although, I would prefer to have this conversation in a more private setting. For both of our sakes, of course.”
Varka paled slightly. “There— Is a secluded corner on the outskirts acceptable?”
Flins tilted his head. “It would be. But I had something quite different in mind.”
Varka led the way with a good amount of reluctance.
He stiffly opened the door to his room, glancing nervously at Flins. With a stilted wave, he gestured for Flins to enter. Flins did and nearly regretted picking Varka’s room at the Flagship as a meeting point, if not for the satisfied rumble deep inside that he could attribute to either parts of him.
The room smelled positively intoxicating this time around, Varka’s scent wrapping around every single item in it. Flins wanted to let out his own real scent, mix it with Varka’s until it became a single new scent belonging to them.
It was an irrational thought.
Fae were greedy creatures who wished to possess, and until now it was only true for certain things. Flins did not expect it to extend to Varka, free as the wind and slipping between his fingers like sand. Alas, Flins’ time to ponder this was cut short as Varka cleared his throat, turning to face Flins. They stood in the middle of the room, a great distance between them.
“I wanted to apologize to you, sir Flins,” Varka said, looking Flins in the eyes. Gone was the shame from earlier, only traces of it remaining behind the steely determination. “My poor decisions and subsequent actions caused you a great deal of trouble and put you in an uncomfortable situation, for which I am deeply sorry. My behavior was unacceptable and does not reflect the code a Knight of Favonius should follow. It was never my intention to inflict this upon you.
“I hope this token is an adequate expression of my sincerity,” Varka then bowed deeply, lower than an apology like this deserved, almost on the verge of prosternation at Flins’ feet. He offered him a small blue ornate box held in his right hand, edges lined with delicate engravings.
Varka was a dangerous man, but worse than that, he was a man in danger of awakening something not even Flins himself was confident he could hold back. The golden details of the box glinted almost mockingly in the flickering candlelights scattered around Varka’s rooms.
Fae had many traditions and even more vows, rituals lost to time Flins only remembers distantly. If they were to give a name and be given one in turn, they could not sever the bond short of severing their own flames from a vessel. Fae did not eat from the same plate nor drink from the same goblet as another, for it would bind them as long as desire held.
Fae did not accept offerings that could be constituted as a bond offering, lest they wished to be bound for the rest of their existence.
Flins huffed out a fond laugh. He did not take the box. “Please rise, my friend. You have nothing to apologize for.”
Varka did not move. Flins’ words lingered in the air.
“Sir Varka, I assure you I was not offended in the least. My discomfort stemmed not from the situation itself, but simply the novelty of it. And with this conversation, I only wished to assure myself of your well-being. You were in a rather dire state.”
Varka slowly straightened, his face devoid of any emotion. He offered Flins the box again. “I appreciate your words, but you don’t need to pretend. I won’t hold it against you if you decide it’s better to take a step back.”
Varka’s face suddenly flashed with something like distress, though his scent remained entirely too tame. The hand Flins held behind his back twitched. The box was still held out between them like a peace offering, one Varka thought – hoped would be acceptable. Flins’ gums were aching fiercely.
“Would you answer me one question sincerely, sir Varka?”
“To the best of my ability,” Varka swore.
“It might be overly intrusive,” Flins warned.
Varka barked out a laugh. “I think we are well past that point.”
“Very well,” Flins said. Then, “What triggered your rut?”
Varka stiffened. He looked away from Flins, then back to him, the corded muscles of his bare forearm bulging as he clenched a fist. He expected Varka to refuse answering, or even to ask Flins to leave, though Flins should have known Varka’s honor would never let him do such a thing.
“Kuuvahki,” Varka said.
Flins blinked. Tilted his head. “Kuuvahki?”
“Yes,” Varka sighed, his clenched arm going limp at his side. “Turns out these cycles can be influenced by the moon, who knew? Now that the real moon is back to Teyvat’s orbit, it’s been making all kinds of things resurface. At least, according to Alice.
“With enough exposure to high levels of kuuvahki on a day-to-day basis combined with a few stunts and more adrenaline than an old wolf like me should be put through, it was enough of a bad mix to blow up when I least expected it."
Flins hummed, thumbing at his chin. “The test miss Nicole put you through couldn’t have helped either, I imagine.”
“It would’ve been harmless on its own, but combined with everything it served to trigger it ahead of time,” Varka confirmed. “It might not be a satisfying answer, sir Flins, but it is the truth. I can only hope it will put you at ease.”
“Heh. There is nothing to appease here beyond my own curiosity. And the truth itself is enough for me, Grandmaster–” Varka brandished the box once more, looking at Flins intently.
“The token,” Varka said, nervous. “It wouldn’t be proper to make an apology without it."
“Forgive me if I offended some Mondstandtian custom I am unfamiliar with,” Flins coughed with uncharacteristic hesitancy, yet his eyes were filled with mirth. “But in Nod-Krai, these gestures are often made in… different contexts.”
Flins watched in barely concealed amusement as Varka flushed, so reminiscent of his time during the rut yet infinitely lovelier, holding Flins’ gaze with lucid eyes. Varka hesitated. Flins waited. He found he had no qualms waiting for Varka, and decided not to think too much on it.
“You’re, ahem, correct in assuming it’s a local custom from home,” Varka said hastily, his armored hand suddenly toying with the strands at the back of his neck. His tone said it was not the correct option. “It’s customary for knights to offer something deemed of high value enough to ask for one’s pardon. You said you appreciated gems with history, and well. I had to atone somehow?”
Flins hid his chuckle in the high collar of his cape. So much for the Grandmaster’s straightforwardness. It was terribly underwhelming, to be asked to bond in such a fashion and Flins ought to have refused. Surely it would be improper to accept Varka’s poor attempt at courting, when Varka still denied it to himself.
An attempt made infinitely more precious in its clumsiness. Flins was unfortunately going to accept it.
“Is that so?” Flins said, resigned and delighted and greedy. “Then it would be terribly rude of me to refuse.”
Flins took a few steps closer and reached out with both hands, one holding Varka’s hand in place by the wrist, thumb brushing over his racing pulse. With the other, he flipped the box open gently.
The gem inside was unlike any Flins owned. It was in a teardrop-like shape, worn down by time so evidently. Colored a fiery, dark amber, the tones not so dissimilar to a kind of Natlanese mead Flins often indulged in when Demyan deigned to order it. When the candles flickered again, the center of it turned an exquisite barley color and it fragmented into countless shades following the cut of the gem.
Flins leaned closer, his thumb worming itself under Varka’s glove, just barely. His fingernail dug into the meat of Varka’s palm, and Varka’s breath hitched, though Flins did not hear it.
“Fascinating,” Flins carefully picked up the gem, taking one step closer to Varka, searching for the stronger source of light behind him and turning it this way and that way. The gem was chipped at the sharpest corner, and countless scratches covered its surface. Looking more closely, Flins discerned almost a liquid-like purple mass nestled within it.
“I do not believe I’ve come across such a specimen before,” Flins ran the flat of his finger over the cracks, feeling some of the groves in it. He itched to take off his gloves. His voice picked up speed as he admired it. “And this color variation is one I've never had the pleasure of witnessing. I wonder, where have you been? What have you seen? If only I could pry your secrets out of you, it would be a discovery worth a thousand fakes.
“You will make a fine addition to my collection, indeed.”
An exhale ruffled the top of Flins’ hair. Flins suddenly remembered where he was. Varka’s wrist was still loosely held captive by Flins’ hand, and Flins was standing close enough to Varka to pick up on the faint leftover smell of scent-blockers. When Flins’ looked at Varka, he almost took a step back in shock.
Varka was smiling, terribly soft and fond, thick brows furrowed and eyes glinting. He looked utterly helpless, charming blues crinkled at the corners and a flush high on his cheeks. Flins cleared his throat and dropped Varka’s arm, taking a step back. He kept the gem cradled in his palm.
“Ah, it seems I’ve once again lost myself in a new treasure. Alas, it would not be the first time this has happened.”
“It’s fine,” Varka was still smiling entirely too softly. A weight seemed to lift off Varka’s shoulder, and he offered Flins another warm smile. Flins’ instincts seemed to agree on one thing this time: Flins wanted to taste it, lick the shape of it and memorize it so the next time his skin itches and his flames rattled his lantern, he will have Varka’s warmth to remember him by. He lobbed the box at Flins, who caught it without looking away. Varka scratched the back of his neck.
“Just glad you like it, s’all.”
Flins delicately settled the gem back in place and shut the box with a click. “You have a good eye.”
Varka shrugged, walking towards the cart on the side. Flins pocketed the gem, and did not think of Varka’s exposed nape as he tilted his head down. There was only so much he could take, so much he could want before Varka stopped being so disillusioned about where they were headed.
“I’m afraid I can’t take credit for it. Call it a perk of knowing people who know their stuff.”
“Would you be amenable to sharing their contact with me? I simply must be given some sort of information about this gem. Anything would be better than this curiosity eating at me.”
Varka laughed. “If I knew it would grab your attention like this, I’d have asked beforehand and told it to you myself. I’m not sure she– I mean, it was an auction and, anyway.” Turning once more to offer Flins a glass, he added, “Say, someone of your background would be able to enlighten me: would it be gauche of me to suggest a toast?”
Flins took the glass with a smile. “How could a ratnik like me know of such etiquette? In my opinion, it would not be at all.”
Varka laughed again, more subdued. He raised his glass, as did Flins.
“To our continued partnership.”
They clinked their glasses together, the chime of it light in the air. Flins smiled at Varka over the rim of his glass, the taste of wine washed out by Varka’s scent as Flins inhaled once more.
And what a partnership it was.
Hours later found them still in Varka's room, this time playing darts.
Neither of them suggested walking to the bar, where there would be infinitely more entertainment and wine. Instead they talked, and drank, and sat far too close for it to be proper.
All the while Flins’ core burned and burned and burned.
Flins hit another bullseye. Varka sighed, relinquishing his hold on the bottle at his side. “I’m lucky to have planned for so much wine in case your forgiveness needed to be bought. You’re going to drink all my stock at this rate.”
Flins poured himself another glass. “So you were planning to bribe me? How underhanded, sir Varka.”
Varka straightened, panic evident on his face. Flins’ nose twitched again, looking for a scent he would not find. Irritation swelled again.
“You needn’t make that face. As I said before, it is of no consequence to me. I am merely relieved to see you whole and hale.” Flins said sincerely, his free hand over his chest.
“Well, I am,” Varka laughed, relief making it softer. “Doubt this would be the kind of thing to take me out for good.”
“I think quite the same.” Flins said. He casually picked up another dart, testing the weight of it in his palm. “But as always, Grandmaster, my curiosity regarding you only grows.”
“You flatter me,” Varka said. “I’m just a man.”
Flins threw the dart. It embedded itself next to the last one, still a bullseye. Varka stood, groaning with the effort. His movements were sluggish, eyes half-lidded and smile content from wine and company. Flins slowly circled Varka as the man took his spot. His boots clacked against the floor evenly, each step measured. Varka picked up a dart, though he tracked Flins’ from the corner of his eye. He was still making that confused expression he often donned, tensing when Flins disappeared behind him.
“I would not say the Knight of Boreas is just a man. In fact, you seem to downplay your role far too often. Do you enjoy surprising people?”
“Only the good kind of surprises,” Varka waved a hand with a laugh. “I reserve the other ones for the things that go bump in the night and try to eat me.”
Flins laughed heartily this time. Varka wouldn’t know what a creature trying to eat him would look like, not when he said it without a hint of irony when Flins stood behind him. Flins and his greedy heart and aching teeth; the lantern he held himself captive within rattling and a pretty courting gem in his pocket.
“Indeed, I am sure a short display of your strength would send them running”
Flins stepped closer, until he was standing right behind Varka. He was just tall enough to spy the small little square peeking from under the Grandmaster’s high collar.
“And yet, I cannot help but wonder if kuuvahki can truly influence outsiders strongly enough to trigger a rut, let alone the fabled Grandmaster’s.”
“That depends,” Varka replied neutrally, crossing his arms. “Can’t say I’m well-versed on the topic to give you a satisfying answer.”
“Mmh. I’m certain miss Alice is much more well-informed, as well as mister Albedo. He might have his own theories on it.”
“He might. You could write to him,” Varka tilted his head toward the ceiling. Flins wished he was facing him, if only to have a full view of his scarred throat for Flins to admire; that fluttering pulse Flins wanted to taste. “I’m better at handling a sword than a living being. The thrill of a challenge, the feel of wind coursing through my blade, that sort of thing.”
“As a warrior should,” Flins said. “But evidently an alchemist with ties to one of the Five Sinners will undoubtedly be of more help.” He placed a palm on Varka’s back, heedless of the warning growl the other man made in response. Slid it higher and higher, until leather met flushed, shivering skin. His pinky slipped under the collar of Varka’s shirt.
“You look rather tense, sir Varka,” Flins said, taking his hand back. “Is something the matter?”
“I wonder about it myself,” Varka said, voice rough. “Is there a point to this line of questioning, Flins?”
Grasping the edge of the scent-blocked between his thumb and forefinger, Flins slowly peeled it off. Varka could have stopped him, could have walked away. Instead he made a small, helpless noise, annoyed and wanting all at once. He stayed still under Flins’ hand, and Flins chuckled.
“Not particularly, Varka,” he said, eyes flashing electric blue at the visible shudder Varka gave. “You’ve given me sufficient answers. Although I do have to say, I far prefer hearing my name from your mouth when no titles are attached to it.”
“I’ll–” Varka let out a loud exhale. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
His scent now spilled out of him in waves, thick and delectable. If Flins had a larger repertory for scents that were not frigid earth and kuuvahki-thick, he'd perhaps be able to put a name on it, and found that he wanted to. He wanted to know which parts of his home Varka carried with him that he would share with Flins.
He settled for rubbing a finger over the edge of Varka’s scent gland instead. Varka’s knees nearly buckled, and he let out a low whine.
Flins inhaled slowly, then let go. He took a step back, and walked away without looking at Varka. Varka made a small questioning noise, and Flins forced himself not to look back, that unfinished bond tugging at him like a fish hook in the mouth of a helpless prey.
“I hear there is a gathering of Ratniki and Knights tonight,” Flins offered, a hand grasping the handle tightly until leather squeaked. “I’m sure the Grandmaster’s presence would be celebrated.”
His only answer was Varka’s heavy breathing, the clinking of his armor. Flins smiled, and walked out.
Flins was at the bar for no longer than half an hour according to his timepiece, before Varka showed up.
Varka’s entrance was followed by the scraping of chairs and cheers, and he had no chance to escape the crowd clamoring for his attention, be it his own knights or the Ratniki, or even the scattered civilians out and about. Flins laughed to himself, and settled instead for watching Varka.
If it wasn’t for the telling change of clothes and a fresh new scent-blocker neatly applied on Varka’s neck, Flins would have thought the Grandmaster utterly unruffled by his teasing. But Flins saw the way Varka’s eyes looked for him, how he shrugged off touches with a smile and far too much charm for anyone to protest. He was offered drink after drink, having no qualms about who bought them for him, yet he kept track of Flins, of his movements, of the way he sat in his little corner as if Varka was giving him his own personal show.
Varka was undeniably magnetic. He walked around the Flagship exuding charm and confidence, giving every person who stopped him a moment of his time. He never frowned, never looked annoyed. Every query was met with a laugh, a smile, a palm on the ball of someone’s shoulder. He ruffled a young knight’s hair, shook hands with a Ratnik Flins vaguely recognized. He rubbed the back of his neck at too-enthusiastic compliments, laughed wholeheartedly at requests of a demonstration of his skills, yet when he inevitably refused with a small speech about practice and honor, it only served to leave his conversation partner starry-eyed.
Flins’ crossed his legs, swirling his wine. The taste of it was pleasant even to Flins’ tastebuds, yet it soured quickly enough when there was not Varka’s scent to mix with it. The gem in his pocket weighed heavier by the minute as Flins sat and drank and wanted so terribly that he feared the moment he could have Varka he would try to tear him apart.
Try, because Varka would fight him. Noble Varka, who rutted against Flins and bared his teeth; who let Flins toy with him like he was helpless to stop it. Knight of Boreas Varka, whose title could have killed a lesser man. Varka who–
“I do enjoy the thrill of a hunt,” Varka laughed, loud and boisterous, cutting Flins’ musings short. The drink in his hand sloshed over his fingers and Varka laughed again as if it was a source of great amusement and not a display of clumsiness from overindulgence. He downed his glass before he slammed it down on the counter. Flins watched with avid eyes as Varka brought a hand up to his mouth and with a languid tongue, he licked the remnants of fire-water from his calloused fingers.
For such a sharp mind, Varka remained utterly oblivious to the looks he received, but Flins did not. He watched as the entire bar seemed to zero in on Varka, eyes hungry and wanting, because Varka was too good and noble and he left a pit of want in everyone he met, but Flins was thrilled to find Varka looking at him instead, brilliant blue rising to meet the dim glow of gold.
His eyes never strayed from Flins as he brought another glass to his lips. The easy smiles reserved for his comrades and troops now sharpened into a grin. Varka’s gums were bright red, blood pooling too close to the surface. His fangs caught the light briefly like the blade of a dagger.
Or perhaps a starving wolf's maw.
Flins smiled. Varka knocked back his drink. His throat bobbed, scarred skin displayed near obscenely. Flins’ teeth ached. Varka turned away then, but not before Flins’ eyes caught the self-satisfied smile on his lips.
Yes, Flins thought with a smile of his own, one he hid in the high collar of his cape. One can certainly understand the appeal, Grandmaster.
Flins throws a few coins on the table, enough to cover the cost of his drinks and a little extra. Then he walked in the direction of Varka’s room, slow and purposeful, those words ringing like a bewitching song in his ears.
Flins made himself at home while waiting for Varka – because he had no doubts Varka would follow, if he was as attuned to Flins as Flins was to him; sitting on the couch closest to the door with his legs crossed, admiring the gem again. When he heard Varka’s unmistakable footsteps, he closed it and slipped it back into his pocket.
“Flins,” Varka said, surprised as if he didn’t expect to find Flins here, as if he tried to quell his hopes and couldn’t in the end. “Noise got too much for you?”
“In a way,” Flins said, staring at Varka with intense eyes. “Or rather, I should say some of it caught my attention right as I was leaving. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to discuss it.”
Varka threw himself in a chair, the metal creaking dangerously under his weight. With a flick of his thumb, he unclasped the leather belts crossing over his collarbones. They hung around his neck temptingly.
“Ah, so something caught your attention,” Varka whistled, the fool. “It must have been quite the information. Care to share, then?”
Flins drummed a finger on the back of his own hand. “Once again, I must warn you that it might seem a little… unconventional to you.”
Varka shakes his head. “And once again, I gotta remind you that I don’t mind it.”
Flins hummed, wickedly pleased. Were Varka to offer himself now, Flins would not be able to find it in him to pull away this time. Perhaps it’s a good thing Varka wore a new patch of those scent-blockers.
“Then tell me, Varka,” Flins’ eyes glowed in the dim light.
“How would you feel about… satisfying your need for a hunt?”
Varka didn’t reply for a long moment. He swallowed, throat dry. Flins held still, like Varka was a small animal he could spook at any moment.
“That’s not how it works,” Varka finally said, voice quiet.
“I was under the impression deals were carried out this way.”
“Not this one,” Varka said firmly. “I already lost control once.” Flins had the vague sense Varka would be reeking of guilt, were it not for the patch hiding it from detection.
“Because of the kuuvahki, yes, you’ve said.”
“Right,” Varka nodded. “So I’m afraid I will have to–”
“Convince me, sir Knight,” Flins leaned back, watching Varka still. “One convincing reason, and I will accept your refusal.”
“I could go rogue,” Varka said seriously. “I am unpredictable. Not only would you be at risk, but others, too.”
Flins didn’t dignify that with a reply. The medal in his collection, his purpose, would not so easily be discarded in the face of mere instincts. That Varka was suggesting it was insulting in itself, but Flins paid it no mind for now.
“I don’t think you know what you’re offering, Flins,” Varka exhaled shakily, changing tactics. “No one in their right mind would, if they did.”
“I would.”
“You’d indulge me,” he said. He sounded as though he didn't believe it. Flins found a vague amusement in seeing the Grandmaster lose his composure for a moment. It was rapidly becoming one of his favorite pastimes.
“I see no harm in it,” Flins said. He folded his hands in his lap again, palms strangely cold, and watched as Varka smoothed his hair back, frantic. His forehead was as scarred as the rest of him, the thin, pale line nearly bisecting the skin in half disappearing as stubborn strands fell back into place, sweat making the greying hairs at his temples curl.
“If you were to… go rogue, as you put it, I am sure I could handle you.”
Varka leaned back in his chair, the wooden back legs scraping against metal as he balanced back against them precariously. He seemed to be sizing Flins up, eyes sharp as he looked him up, down, and up again. The blue of them shone like the sort of gem Flins would like to clean and polish, keep in the collection only made for his own eyes to admire. Flins ran the tip of his tongue against a fang, felt the bite of its sharp tip until the urge to say as much passed. His flames called to devour the amber stone in his pocket.
A token, Varka had said. Flins was willing to give him one in return, a permanent proof of his affections, if only Varka would let him.
Varka shook his head with a laugh. He laughed with his whole body even now, head thrown back and shoulders shaking on a wheeze. His scent was still muted, still hidden from Flins. It was a shame, but Flins could be patient. He’s always been, for the things worth his while.
For now, all he could do was breathe it in, even though he didn’t need to, and watch Varka's smile widen through half-lidded eyes. As if he wasn't asking for Flins to tame him. As if he welcomed the threat of teeth, the suggestion of a fight Flins had no doubt Varka would only put up for appearances’ sake.
“Alright,” Varka said. “Alright, Ratnik. I sure hope you’re ready to back up that claim, or I'll find myself disappointed.”
Flins’ stifled a laugh. “Then I must make sure to live up to your expectations, hm?” He tilted his head and smiled with too sharp teeth. Varka's throat clicked on a swallow.
“After all, you do enjoy the thrill of a hunt, don't you?”
Flins liked puzzles. Puzzles were relaxing, they made Flins think carefully about how to create something, how to put it together from broken, jagged pieces. Varka lured him in with the promise of one but was shaping up to be a maze instead, and Flins was rapidly getting lost in him.
He left with a half-promise and a clumsy bond from a man larger than life itself, and Flins had no idea how to navigate it.
I will find you during my next rut, Varka said; promised, looking at Flins with overwhelming affection and guilt. Flins still didn’t know the cause of it.
I can wait, Flins thought, gently cleaning a spot in his collection for his most precious addition thus far.
If it’s for you, dear Varka, I can wait.