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The flowers were just starting to bloom at the Final Night Cemetery. The Frostlamp Flowers bloomed year round, more often in the winter, but the dandelions and small weeds that came with late spring and early summer were pushing through the sparse dirt. The days were starting to get a little longer. Flins watched it all from the table just outside the lighthouse, reluctant to leave Illuga sleeping alone inside.
Following the accident that had wrecked Illuga’s knee and ankle, the Captain of the Nightmare Orioles had stubbornly tried to rush his recovery. Nikita had eventually had enough of Illuga trying to drag himself around Piramida and asked Flins to take him to the Final Night Cemetery. The isolation and silence provided a peace Illuga didn’t have in Piramida. It was just Flins to take care of him. There were no prying squad mates, no one to serve as an imaginary benchmark that Illuga would only harm himself trying to reach.
Illuga reminded him of the Frostlamp Flowers. Stubborn, resilient, blooming in the harshest conditions known to man. Flins absently thought that Illuga smelled like those flowers, too. He’d seen Illuga throw them in a stew several times, just to try and boost the nutrition of their lacking rations the slightest bit more. Illuga always thought about others first. He bloomed brilliantly in the heat of battle, in the silence of grief, and always moved forwards.
But just like how flowers wilted, his Illuga did too. In the silence between battles, under the weight of expectations he’d put upon himself. Flowers couldn’t stop themselves from dying, neither could humans. Illuga had come close when he fell off the cliff. Flins had seen the scene of the crime. He’d gone to visit, if only to retrieve the trinkets he knew would’ve fallen from Illuga’s coat pockets. The sand had been stained red, and a few broken flowers laid nearby. They died, just like everything did, under Illuga’s collapsed weight.
Death was something that never escaped Flins. He’d slumbered in “death” once, laid under the sepulcher erected upon the hills he now lived upon. He’d awoken to bodies strewn and bloodied. He’d held those bloodied corpses and buried them with tenderness, as everyone was equal in death. They all deserved softness. Death followed the Lightkeepers, always a step behind as they raced to fight the Wild Hunt and preserve Nod Krai for the future. The flowers blooming around the island, born of dirt fertilized by bodies, blood and bone would inevitably die, just like the corpses nurturing their fleeting lives.
Flins was shaken from his musings by the sound of heavy, uneven footsteps behind him. He turned and raised an eyebrow, watching as Illuga stubbornly trudged forward, supported by two wooden crutches. After two weeks upon the isle holding the cemetery at the edge of the sea, Illuga could finally bear some weight upon his wounded leg.
“Now, is the esteemed Young Master meant to be out of bed, yet?” Flins’ comment had Illuga scowling. Despite the teasing laced into his words, they were borne of a concern the fae had not the words to describe. Illuga was like Frostlamp Flowers, stubborn, strong, and so evidently mortal.
“Bed is borning, Sir Flins,” Illuga groused, limping over to the table. He sat heavily on the uneven bench behind the table, right within Flins’ line of site. The smaller man set his crutches down with a groan. “I should be filing old reports, at the very least. I know you have some hidden around here.”
Flins had, indeed, hidden his unfinished reports when Illuga had been sent to stay with him. He filled them out while Illuga slept. His Illuga was meant to be resting, to be preserving that fleeting, human strength he still had.
“It would be quite rude of me to have a guest doing my work,” Flins stated, leaning against the table to watch Illuga a little closer. The color had since returned to Illuga’s cheeks. He recalled how pale Illuga had been upon his arrival to Piramida following the accident. He’d almost blended in with the dusting of snow that had come down that morning, an early spring gift from the heavens. “Especially when that guest is my Young Master, who has yet to fully recover from his injuries.”
Illuga’s lips turned down in a scowl. Flins quite would’ve liked to kiss that frown from Illuga’s lips, but the smaller man’s complaints escaped before he could even think of fulfilling that wish. “I’m injured, not useless. Our comrades are out there, fighting the Wild Hunt, while I’m here listening to you spin stories from ash and watching you make jigsaws from old bones. I should, at the very least, be doing paperwork.”
There were many things that could lead to the death of a flower. Its bloom could be plucked from the stem for a moment of fleeting beauty to be admired, before it wilted away in the hands that claimed it. It could wither in the darkness, straining for a sun that never shone upon it. The soil could be barren of water or nutrients, leading to a fierce competition of tangling roots that only served to choke the flowers fighting for their lifeblood.
Illuga was like a flower, Flins thought. His sun was the life of a Lightkeeper, but his duties as the Captain of the Nightmare Orioles served as the darkness, choking him slowly. The very thing Illuga loved would be the thing that plucked his beautiful bloom, dooming him to wither and wilt to nothingness before the world could truly appreciate him.
Not if he could help it, though. “If my Young Master is truly so restless, he could be doing his physical therapy exercises, as prescribed by the doctors.” Flins raised an eyebrow as Illuga’s pout deepened. “There is nothing that will help your recovery faster. As the doctors said, rest and easy stretching.”
“It’s not like doing paperwork is going to strain my leg,” Illuga countered. Flins did so love Illuga’s spark. He moved around the table, leaning against the low surface in front of Illuga. “It’ll keep my brain active. A stagnant mind does no good for the body.”
“Casualty reports shall do nothing to raise your spirits,” Flins commented, knowing that was most of what Illuga handled. Every Lightkeeper filed reports on Wild Hunt sightings, on patrol incidents and supply needs. Only Captains wrote casualty reports. “A puzzle or a novel shall nurture your mind plenty, Young Master.”
Illuga’s pout morphed to a full scowl. Flins huffed out a breath, trying not to smile at the sight of his Illuga so despondent. It was never easy to make a man as set in his ways as Illuga to relax.
“I feel like I’m rotting out here,” Illuga eventually said. Rot. Yet another thing that killed the flowers just starting to decorate the Final Night Cemetery. Rot, that choked the life from beautiful flowers and turned them to the dirt that their brethren came from. “I should be out there. I should be with the others, driving the Wild Hunt back.”
“I think you’re doing the farthest thing from rotting here, Young Master.” Flins didn’t often let his voice slip into his more serious cadence. He liked to keep his voice light- playful, even. It made handling the terrors of a life spent hunting the souls of the damned easier. His gloved hand rose to cup one of Illuga’s soft cheeks. “I think you’re living. Blooming, like the flowers just starting to sprout.”
Illuga’s cheeks flushed to a marvelous pink. It was remarkably easy to make Illuga’s cheeks rival the flames of his cooking pot. Only he could make Illuga open, make him bloom like a fine rose, thorns and all.
“You and your silver tongue,” Illuga hissed, turning his face away. Nothing he did could hide the flush to his cheeks from Flins. Fae liked to keep what was precious to them. None of the gems in his collection could rival the beauty that was Illuga. “Flattery won’t keep me here longer than I need to be, Sir Flins.”
How foolish of Illuga to think that. Flins would never keep Illuga secreted away from the world. While he might want to keep Illuga all to himself, that would make his Illuga quite sad. His Illuga needed the sun, needed the Lightkeepers, no matter how much they sapped the nutrients from the soil of his life. Flins tilted Illuga’s head to look back at him again.
“I would never dream of keeping you away from the world, Young Master,” he crooned, rubbing his thumb against the apple of Illuga’s cheek. “I only wish to keep you here until the flowers start to wilt. Your leg should be recovered by then.”
The flowers that bloomed, the dandelions and small blossoms fighting their way out of the softened dirt of old graves, they never lived for more than a few weeks. That was how much longer the doctors suspected it would take for Illuga to be well enough to return to duty.
How poetic it was, Flins thought, that his Illuga’s life would restart as the flowers’ lives came to an end. Life was met with death, and death fueled new life. It was a cycle he’d watched since his days in the flashing court of the first Tsar, the fleeting lives of humans inspiring the next generation to do things better, grander. His Illuga’s life was much the same.
“But if my Young Master is that bored, it would be cruel of me to deny him work,” Flins said, pulling back from Illuga. He procured an envelope from the folds of his jacket. It had arrived just that morning. Paperwork, just like Illuga had been dreaming of. He handed it over to Illuga, who snatched it up greedily. “Nikita sends his regards, and his overdue work.”
Illuga started folding through the papers with an intensity Flins hadn’t seen since he all but dragged him out to the lonely isle. If this was what made his Illuga happy, he’d go with it.
“Might I have a pen, and some ink?” Flins retrieved the items requested as Illuga spread the papers out on the table. He watched as Illuga started to work, watching keenly.
“Would the Young Master not wish to work inside, where it is warmer?” While it may be the start of summer, Nod Krai could never be called warm. Flins didn’t want Illuga’s reblooming to be delayed by a preventable illness. “The sun shall set in a few hours.”
“That’s still a few hours of sunlight,” Illuga protested, lifting his head from his work for a moment. Flins felt a smile tug at his thin lips. Ever the stubborn one, his Illuga was. “And I’ll be plenty warm if you sit with me.”
Illuga’s final statement had his cheeks flushing, and Flins beaming. He brushed off his coat and settled on the bench next to Illuga. The metal never held warmth, so he pressed his side against the smaller man’s and wrapped a long arm around Illuga’s waist.
“Whatever my Young Master wishes,” he crooned, lowering his head to press a kiss to the top of Illuga’s head. Flins made the effort to warm his body, letting the fire that burned in his lantern warm his body. He’d be the only source of heat Illuga ever needed. “Though, you must head inside for dinner.”
Illuga conceded there. Before he could get too drawn into his work, Flins caught Illuga’s chin between his index finger and thumb. He couldn’t help but kiss Illuga, reminding himself of the life beating in Illuga’s chest, blooming between his ribs. Illuga melted, only to sputter and protest when Flins pulled away. He chuckled, settling in as Illuga turned his energy back to his work, trying to act like he hadn’t been affected.
Illuga was soon absorbed in the papers and numbers. Flins watched each flick of his wrist, each curve of the letters Illuga placed on the page. How strong his Illuga was. How resilient, how busy he made himself, only so that he didn’t think of the looming mortality of him and his fellow Lightkeepers.
Flins could think of that plenty for Illuga. He turned his attention from Illuga to the flowers adorning the cemetery. He recognized the death blooms of several small flowers, the ones that lived for but a few days, only to have their descendants carry on the lifecycle. Grow, bloom, secure the future, die. Just like the Lightkeepers, going out in a shining blaze with their lanterns held high.
If he could, he would make sure Illuga never had a death bloom. Flins would give everything for the chance to lay Illuga in a beautiful grave, one beside the sepulcher beholding his own name. That grave would hold the details of how long Illuga’s life was, how wonderful and full it was, and how he hadn’t needed to sacrifice himself in an endless loop of hunting and being hunted by the ghouls of the land.
Yes, Flins thought, he’d give everything to ensure Illuga bloomed not like the weeds, but like the Frostlamp Flowers filling the Final Night Cemetery. He would continue until then, nurturing and loving Illuga until he finally wilted. Only then would he return to his own eternal rest, his lantern brighter than any of the stars, encouraging the ghosts and rare passerby to come see the flowers that would be honored to come from the dirt cradling his Illuga.
But that was a long time in the future, if Flins’ plans came to fruition. For now, Flins reveled in holding Illuga close, in watching him write patrol routes, fill out ration requests, and detail correspondence with their allies around Nod Krai. He would be the soil for his beautiful Illuga to bloom from, and that was more than enough.
His Illuga was far more beautiful than any of the flowers in his cemetery, Flins decided. He made sure to murmur this in Illuga’s ear, laughing as his Illuga swatted at him with a flustered huff. For now, this was perfection.