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The Corpse Groom pt. 4

Yandere!Varka x Reader x Yandere!Flins

wordcount: ~6300

tws: CorpseBride!AU, (soft?) yandere, obsessive/possessive behaviour, AFAB!reader, gothic horror (I hope), age difference, arranged marrige, Flins being a bit creepy gentleman he is.

(If you find some more, please let me know.)

As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 (you are here) - part 5 (WIP)

NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Not proofread. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes. Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.

Inspired by Tim Burton's "Corpse Bride" and The Unequal Marriage, 1862. Vasili Pukirev.

Invadable Harmony - Once Upon a December

Joep Beving - Ala

Howard Harper-Barnes - The English Affair

The mist of the underworld had shed its menace.

Near Flins, it turned into a serene veil that softened every edge. As you walked the path with your hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm, an eerie familiarity began to dawn, like remembering the details of a dream long forgotten.

Your boots, slightly too large and strangely comfortable, trod over soft moss that seemed alive with glimmers of light. The path wound on in irregular twists framed by gnarled roots that cradled bioluminescent fungi glowing a soft cerulean blue. It struck you as a reflection of that old oak lane back in the world above. There, the roots had tripped you and the ruts had sucked at your heels, but here, they cradled light and led you forward with gentle insistence.

“It’s like the lane to the town,” you whispered, the words escaping on a puff of warm breath that hung in the cool air.

Flins’s voice was a gentle harmony to your observation, but his breath drew no fog, “Indeed it is, my heart. Our worlds are almost identical. Here, places remember their truest shape, not the one worn down by time and worry.” He guided you around a gentle bend, and a small, stone bridge came into view, arching over a stream that flowed without a sound, its waters dark as polished slate.

“But we have no lighthouse,” you said, a quiet triumph in your observation.

Flins’s smile deepened, becoming something ancient and knowing. “I did say almost, my dearest. For there are certain things that belong, by sacred right, to silence alone. Some lights are meant to guide only those who are lost between the faded shores of what has been, and the beckoning dawn of what may yet be.” With that, he lowered his hand along with yours, and his palm, cool and steady, covered your own. The chill of him was a gentle contrast to the living warmth that thrummed just beneath your skin – a simple trait of you he seemed to enjoy more than the deadman should.

The cemetery monuments, covered in lichen and time’s gentle decay, watched silently as you continued. This place, which should have weighed heavy on your spirit, instead hovered on the edge of beauty and haunting wonder, almost as if the dead had chosen to remember only the parts worth keeping.

And yet, stillness cannot hold forever.

Far beyond the fenced border of the graveyard, deep within the heart of the forest, something pulsed. Not the ethereal indigo of Flins’s magic or the pearl-glow of the mist, but a vicious crimson throbbed between trunks. It felt like a heartbeat, too close and too alien, and it sent a shiver cold and primal, locking up your spine.

You halted, your fingers curling around his instinctively. “Flins… what is that light?”

He had seen it the moment your breath hitched. Before your eyes could fully focus or your question could hang in the air, Flins moved, his broad back now a dark shield between you and the woods.

“Pay it no heed, my heart,” he said in a low murmur. “Some shadows are best left alone.” With one firm hand on the small of your back, he guided you away from the gloom. “Come, let us return to the light. Our friends await us, and their company is a far sweeter solace.”

Indeed, as Flins gently urged you to move, the couple from the cliffside was there, near a monument entwined with stone ivy and little ghost-lichen that glowed soft white. The older lady was waving with a vigor that made the lace at her wrists flutter. As you approached, her face, a landscape of gentle wrinkles and kind eyes, lit up with a warmth that seemed to push back the gloom of this world.

“Oh, my sweet child!” the woman cried, coming forward in a flurry of skirts and joy. Her gown, green as a mossed goblet, rustled in a way that spoke of dances long since given. She took your hand in both of hers with the fervor of one who had been waiting for a sunlight to brighten her morning. Her skin was a parchment map of years, and yet her grip was full of the present. “You startled us, like a comet finding our lawn. Peter, I knew this day would bloom with marvels! Isn’t it just splendid?”

The said man, Peter, stood with a patient stillness. The terrible wound on his neck was just a fact of him now, like a scar earned in a forgotten war. Despite his rough appearance, a kind smile softened his weathered face.

“Now, Maria, how could we expect this? A living heart, beating right here in the quiet land? And on today, of all days.” His voice was a comfortable rumble, like cart wheels on a dirt road.

“T-today?” you asked, your voice still thin from the residual fear.

“The day this stubborn woman finally decided to join me,” Peter said, and his eyes, grey as the skin of a stone, glimmered. He folded the woman into him. She let go of your hand with the contented sigh of one who is exactly where they mean to be, and for a heartbeat, the two of them were a single flame. “Fifty years to the day I passed,” he breathed. “She lingered, and I was foolish enough to hope.” He winked, a spark of lively mischief in his ghostly eyes.

Maria swatted his chest, but she was radiant. “And what a wait it was! But let me tell you, child,” she said, her gaze locking onto yours with earnest joy, “the moment I closed my eyes in that big, empty bed and opened them again to see his foolish face… it was the best day of my existence! Better than any ball, any feast. All that loneliness just made the finding sweeter than summer wine!”

Their love was a tangible force, a hearth-fire warmth in the cool air that made your ache. It felt like a well-worn, perfectly fitted cloak, woven on the loom of decades, thread by patient thread. The unexpected ache in your chest deepened into a hunger for something so steadfast, so earned.

“I… I’m truly sorry for intruding,” you managed, offering a small smile that felt like a pale imitation of their radiance. “My congratulations. It’s beautiful.”

“Intruding? Pish-posh!” Maria trilled, waving a dismissive hand. “You’re a splash of color on a gray canvas! Now, the question awaits – who are you, lovely living thing? What brings a rose in full bloom to our garden of memories?”

You opened your mouth, but the weave of your life’s sorrow and grief tangled itself into a snarl on your tongue. You could have spoken the truth – the ache that had pushed you along roads you didn’t choose – but it seemed too ill-mannered.

What came to your aid was Flins’s voice. It cut through, clear and definitive as a bell tolling across the Nasha town. “This,” he announced, and the pride that laced his tone was so hot and so certain it made your cheeks grow warm, “is my wife.”

The silence that followed was a bubble of pure surprise.

Then Maria’s hands flew to her cheeks as if to hold back a tide of delight.

“Wife? Your wife? The enigmatic keeper of the lonely lighthouse? The one all the wistful maidens whisper about but never dare to approach?” She peered at you with hungry curiosity. “Stars above, Peter, did you hear that? Did you?”

“I did, my darling, I did,” Peter murmured, a broad, sun-breaking-through-clouds smile spreading across his face as he gave a firm, approving nod to Flins. “Good. Very good. A rare and beautiful bloom indeed.”

The flush that crept up your neck was a wildfire of conflicting emotions – embarrassment at being so openly adored, a strange pleasure at the uncomplicated praise, and beneath it, a tremor of fear at how seamlessly Flins had woven this fiction. He absorbed their approval like a parched root absorbing rain. His usual serene dignity softened, infused with a radiant warmth. He dipped his head in a graceful nod.

“Your kindness is a light upon us. Truly, I am... a man undeserving of such grace, and yet, beyond measure, blessed.”

“Oh, but you must listen to me now, Flins,” Maria said, her tone shifting to one of gentle command. She pointed a finger at you, not accusing, but instructing. “Be her guardian moon,” Maria said, with the gentle imperiousness of someone who had been married to one man for a very long time and had, therefore, opinions about how love should be kept. “Cherish her. Warm her. Hide her from the sharpest winds.”

“I intend to honor that trust with every breath I do not take, dear Maria,” Flins replied, his voice dropping to a solemn, intimate register with an echo of laughter, “I will adore her light until my own dwindles, and guard it as the night guards the dawn.” He looked down at you, and in his star-flecked eyes, you saw a universe being meticulously arranged around your image.

“Splendid!” Peter boomed, clapping his hands with a sound like ancient parchment rustling. “Then this isn’t just an anniversary, it’s a double celebration! No arguments from the newlyweds,” he stated, as Flins was about to begin a polite protest of his. “You’ve been a shore-bound hermit too long. The town will be overjoyed. A little happiness is good for the atmosphere. Come, we’ll all walk together.”

Flins hesitated, a flicker of something fiercely private crossing his face – a guardian’s instinct to keep his treasure hidden. “The town… I fear its nature would be rather overwhelming. The clamour of so many memories...”

“Overwhelming? Nonsense!” Maria declared, deftly looping her arm through yours from the other side. Her touch was surprisingly substantial, unexpected from the dead. “She has the courage of a lioness, I can see it in the set of her chin! Your wife–” and Flins bloomed at these words, “–is just not accustomed to our ways yet! It’s just a gentle stroll, some happy greetings. Everyone will be so pleased to see the light in your eyes finally answered!” Peter supported her ideas with a firm nod.

“Deary,” she added, winking at you, “Don't you worry! He’s just being protective. A good sign in a husband, mind you, but a married man must learn the music of society!”

And so you were swept along, a quartet now on the silver-dusted path. Yet again, Flins kept your hand in the confines of his fingers, a fixed point in the gentle tumult, while Maria anchored your other side, a chatterbox of cheerful commentary.

As you walked, Maria’s curiosity, like a bubbling spring, couldn’t be contained. “But you are so very... alive, my dear! How does the mechanics of it all work?” She waved her hand at you in sweeping, elegant arc, as though you were a rare and delicate clockwork songbird.

Peter chuckled and drew his wife closer, away from you, his love a palpable cushion around her. “The heart is the only engine that matters. Didn’t it build a bridge of fifty years for us? If a promise can span decades, why can’t a vow span the very shore of being?” He glanced at Flins with the easy affection of old comrades, the sort of look that passed between men who had too many shared stories to tell. “When a soul has made its choice,” he added, “rules become suggestions.”

Flins met his gaze and gave a nod. “Indeed,” he said softly, his thumb beginning an unconscious stroking motion on the back of your hand. “The heart is a cartographer. It redraws the maps of possibility.”

Around you, the conversation knitted itself. Maria fussed about your wedding gown – “All ruined! Such a pity!” – and vowed, with the uncompromising optimism of someone certain of miracles, to fetch a seamstress in town who could coax splendor from ragged lace. Peter described apples that tasted like early autumn mornings, the ones that he grew in the realm of living. Flins threaded his comments through the talk like thin lines and smiled, however rarely.

It was this surreal normality that was most disorienting. The easy back-and-forth, the shared smiles that weren’t predatory or weary, but kind. It felt like you had stumbled into the warm kitchen of a family you never knew you had, and they were insisting you belonged at the table.

And Flins… When you spoke, he leaned in as if your words were sacred wonders, and when the path pitched and a hidden root sought to trip you, his hand came lightly to the small of your back. The touch was feathered and yet it branded with a chill certainty, the kind of cold that promised preservation.

You were accustomed to the unvarnished, often crude, manners of Nasha Town – the shouts across streets, the hearty claps on the back, the way men occupied space as a natural right. Flins’s demeanor was woven from another substance entirely. Every pause was a pulse beneath the fabric, every word held note of a virtuoso at the edge of rapture.

As you proceeded, you realized, with a start, that you were not on the main path that led back to the silent bridge. Instead, Peter, with a confident step, had led your party onto a narrower trail near the edge of the cemetery. It wound like a dark ribbon through a denser part of the woods, where the trees grew closer, their branches weaving a cathedral vault high above. You were about to voice a question about this alternate route when the crimson glow intruded once more.

It was closer. Much closer. A sullen orb in the color of clotted blood, nestled in a hollow between the twisted roots of a dead tree. A low hum emanated from it, a vibration that set your nerves on edge. It felt hungry.

Your steps faltered. “Flins, again, it’s–”

You never finished. A soft azure light blossomed at your side, so you glanced down, curious. The lantern at the keeper’s hip, usually a sleeping star, was now awake with the same crimson hue. Flins, with the oblique grace that always seemed to belong to him, shifted the fall of his coat. Dark wool drifted and fell over the lantern as though a curtain had been drawn on a stage. The light dimmed, muffled into something private. His other hand tightened around yours with a gentle pressure that made the air itself seem steadier.

“Flins,” you whispered again, his name itself a plea for explanation.

He parted his blue-tinted lips, ready to offer a soothing, likely metaphorical, explanation. But Maria turned toward the crimson, and the laughter left her face like a bird startled into flight. The edges of her smile steadied into something firm, and she spoke in a voice that held the soft pity.

“Pay it no mind, sweetheart,” she said. “Some souls don’t know how to lay down their burdens. They carry anger, betrayal and thirst for revenge until it becomes… this. It’s… not for the likes of us, dearie. Not for happy hearts.”

Flins closed his mouth, poetic deflection sagging into quiet gratitude. He gave Maria a grateful nod. The subject, his posture declared, was sealed. He guided you forward, his body subtly positioned to block your view. As you passed, you thought you saw, in the depths of that crimson pulse, the last shapeless movement – a twitch of spectral agony.

Then it was behind you.

Soon, the oppressive closeness of the woods began to ease. The trees thinned, and the path sloped downward in a series of moss-carpeted steps. Below, the town of the dead revealed itself as a serene vision. Gray-shingled cottages with chimneys clustered around a tranquil square. A dry fountain stood in its center, a statue of a woman with an urn forever frozen in the act of pouring silent water. Lanterns hung with pale flame, bead-soft and gentle. The town was like a painting of peace that contrasted its twin above.

It was here, on this threshold where the woodland path met the town’s edge, that a stronger sigh of wind swept up from the depths below. It was a capricious gust, and it found the carefully arranged ends of your dark shawl, tugging them loose. The fabric fluttered free, lifting like the wings of a startled night butterfly against the twilight.

You gasped, raising a hand to catch the fleeing wool, but in a movement faster than thought, Flins was facing you.

“Oh dear,” he murmured, his voice thick with a concern that felt disproportionate to the breeze. Then he leaned in and seized the ends of it between his long fingers. The world narrowed to the space between your faces.

He stood so close that the map of his features, the frostlike filigree at his temples, the way the moonlight carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, were all laid plain to you. He was so close. And he was looking at you with a yearning so absolute it seemed to bend the very light around you.

Then, faster than any thought, he bridged that final gap as if pulled by gravity. His lips, colder and softer than the petal of a winter rose, pressed to the very tip of your nose.

It was a shock, but a sweet one – the crisp kiss of a first snowflake landing precisely on the warmest point of your being, melting instantly into a memory.

Flins did not pull away quickly. He lingered in the aftermath, basking in your own startled warmth, creating a transient cloud where your two realities met. With a tenderness that felt like it could mend broken porcelain, he drew the shawl ends together, wrapping the soft wool securely around your shoulders and head, his fingers brushing the line of your jaw.

Your face, already touched by the cool air, now bloomed with a wildfire of living heat, a flag of crimson defiance against the pallid world. Your heart was a wild drum against the cage of your ribs, beating a rhythm of confusion, shock, and sweetest flutter.

Maria, who had witnessed the entire exchange, let out a peal of delighted laughter that broke the perfect moment. “Oh, Flins, you handsome scoundrel!” she cried, her hands clasped to her chest in sheer joy. “Stealing kisses so shamelessly! Marriage hasn’t just melted that icy heart of yours, no! It has set your soul to bubbling like a spring!”

Flins did not break his gaze from you as she spoke. The faint blue-ish blush on his marble cheeks deepened to the violet of a deep twilight. But he did not dissolve, did not retreat into his lantern this time. He held your gaze with the quiet intensity of a man who has found his reason for eternity and will not blink lest the vision fade.

A ghost of a smile touched his frozen lips, meant for you alone.

“Perhaps,” he said, “it has.”

The town of the dead didn’t so much end as soften, its quiet cobblestone streets yielding to a lane. The buildings, with their slate roofs and pale walls, leaned toward one another in peaceful conversation, their windows glowing with a buttery light that had no source of flame.

It was then that you passed the intersection where the lane met a cobbled square. And there it was: a building that seemed to breathe warmth into the perpetual twilight. “The Deadman’s Share” read the carved sign above the door, wrought of black iron twisted into elegant vines. Smoke curled from a stout chimney, carrying the scent of baking bread, spiced cider, and seasoned oak.

“Oh, look! We are finally here!” Maria exclaimed, clapping her hands together with a sound like chimes. “Come, dears, you must step inside for a moment!”

You hesitated, your feet rooted to the street stone. In the world of the living, such places in a town like Nasha were refuges of last resort, filled with the grim laughter of miners drowning their fears in bitter alcohol, the air thick with despair and cheap vodka.

Flins, too, had paused. He was not looking at the door, but at the smoke, his star-lit eyes reflecting the amber glow. A faint, almost imperceptible tension built up in his broad shoulders. He, with his eyebrows knitted together, didn't seem particularly entertained by the idea of coming inside as well.

But before you two could form a timid protest, a cheerful shout rang out. The tavern door had opened, spilling a richer wave of laughing and the strains of a ghostly fiddle into the street. Two figures stood silhouetted in the light – a man with the broad shoulders of a blacksmith and a woman whose form shimmered like a reflection in a sun-warmed pond.

“Maria! Peter! You’ve brought guests!” the man boomed, his voice a hearty sound that held no aggression, only abundant welcome.

“Not guests, Harold!” Maria called back, her voice singing with triumph. “A wonder! A living, breathing wonder!”

The social terror you’d felt before escalated in a cold wave, washing away the momentary curiosity. You instinctively stepped closer to Flins, your shoulder brushing the elegant wool of his cloak. You felt him lean into the contact, a subtle shift that spoke of a silent understanding. The long arm of his found your form, wrapping around it protectively.

Too many eyes. Too many voices.

“Harold, Anastasia,” Flins nodded in recognition, “we were just proceeding to the tailor.” He attempted to turn, his hand coming to the small of your back to guide you away. “We wouldn’t wish to intrude upon a private gathering.”

“Private? Nonsense!” the woman chimed in, floating closer. Her kind face was wreathed in a smile. “The Share’s warmth is for all who carry a memory of community. And you,” her eyes, the soft brown of wood, settled on you with gentle awe, “you carry the most vibrant memory of all, I reckon. Please, just for a moment. A single toast to warm your journey.”

The pressure was a gentle, inexorable tide. Harold and Anastasia joined Maria and Peter, forming a semicircle of expectant faces. Their goodwill was a palpable force, a net of silken threads that made Flins’s jaw tighten, a minute clenching of marble. His hand on your back pressed slightly, a signal. We could flee. We could turn to mist and shadow. But the act would be a violent tear in this fabric of gentle peace, a rejection of the kindness this world had offered you.

“I guess, it wouldn’t hurt…” You breathed out, because denying these lively dead seemed impolite.

Flins stilled, and his starry eyes met yours immediately. In them, you saw the conflict: the desire to spirit you away to his solitary tower, warring with a stranger need – the instinct of a man who must, at some point, introduce his bride to the nosey neighborhood. With a sigh that was of surrendering a cherished solitude, he gave the faintest of nods.

The door swung open fully, and before you could muster a protest, the current of well-meaning ghosts carried you across the threshold. The strange warmth that embraced you wasn’t the damp heat of a Nasha Town’s taverns, thick with sweat and desperation. This place was breathing with heat, like the pentiful soil at the end of winter. It smelled of polished oak, of spiced apples, of clean pipe smoke that carried the scent of autumn leaves rather than cheap tobacco.

And it was, you realized with a deeper shock, beautiful.

The Deadman’s Share was a chapel to quiet camaraderie. The ceiling was high, supported by curved beams from which hung bundles of dried flowers that glowed with their own bioluminescent light. The walls were paneled in honey-gold wood. Along them hung some paintings, bringing to life some peaceful scenes: a ship entering a calm harbor, a sower casting seeds, a couple dancing under a willow tree. A fireplace large enough to stand in dominated the far wall, but within its hearth, no logs burned. Instead, great ribbons of blue and silver fire – like captured Northern Lights – drifted and curled in a mesmerizing ballet, their cool light radiating the strange warmth you felt earlier.

And this place was so lively. The patrons were many, a dazzling gathering of shadows and soft light. Their forms were the true tapestry of the place. A woman by the fire had hair like spun moonlight and skin so translucent you could see the bird-like architecture of the bones in her hands as she lifted her glass. A man playing a chess game with himself had a handsome face, but the left side of his doublet was dark and stiff with a long-dried stain, a dagger still embedded silently in his ribs. A group of three in the corner laughed silently, their mouths open in joy, their throats showing the terrible, final reason for their silence. The other guests sat at the polished tables, enjoying their drinks.

And yet their eyes sparkled with kindness. They were not gruesome. They were simply true. Their deaths were part of them, as natural as the color of their eyes or the shape of their smiles. And the smiles were plentiful, peaceful, and warm.

The wave of sorrow that hit you was so immense, it nearly stole your breath. This place of final rest had more art, more peace, more genuine community than the struggling realm you called home.

Why, a voice wept inside you, is the land of the remembered dead so much kinder than the land of the forgotten living?

Peter, with the air of a man about to perform a sacred duty, cleared his throat, tearing you out of your misery. The gentle hum of the tavern softened, then stilled. Faces turned toward you, pale and serene, some vivid, some mere suggestions of light. The glass stilled in the translucent hand. The silent laugh paused. The chess player’s hand hovered over the white bishop.

“Dear friends,” Peter began, his voice a comforting rumble that filled the space. “My dear Maria and I have had the honor of walking tonight with two souls whose paths have woven into a single thread. You all know our steadfast Keeper of the Lighthouse, who has protected our shores in contemplative silence for longer than most of us can recall.” All eyes turned to Flins, who stood as still and perfect as a statue carved from midnight, his expression unreadable. “It seems the silence has found its song. The vigil is over! This,” Peter said, and his gesture toward you was filled with benevolence, “is his reason. His wife!”

The silence that followed was absolute and attentive. Dozens of eyes – some bright and full as a harvest moon, others softer, like smoldering peat – settled on you. There was no judgment, only a gathering wonder. Then, the applause began.

“A light for the lighthouse at last!” giggled the woman with moonlit hair.

“A beauty to match the keeper’s longing,” said the chess player, smiling kindly.

The group of three nodded in quiet approval.

Then, a man at the bar with maroon eyes and jet black hair roared: “To the groom! To the bride! May your shared silence be a song!”

The toasts washed over you, each one a balm and a barb. Flins stood as a carved monument beside you, accepting the words with slight inclinations of his head. But when the voices called you a fragile flame, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you firmly into the cool, solid line of his body.

Then, from a shadowed nook, another voice called, “Words are fine wine, but a wedding needs its seal! A kiss, keeper! Let us witness the bond!”

A ripple of agreeing laughter flowed through the room. Your heart, a trapped bird, beat against your ribs. Public affection in your world was a coarse thing, a prelude to lewd jokes in the marketplace. This request felt different, but still terrifyingly exposing.

Flins turned to you slowly. The crowd’s noise faded into a distant sea. His face was a canvas of conflict in the flickering light – a trace of annoyance at the spectacle, but beneath it, a cunning delight. A secretive smile touched the corner of his perfect blue lips. His eyes, holding yours, gleamed with a private conspiracy.

“It would be…” he murmured, his voice a velvet thread meant only for you, “terribly ungrateful… to deny this kind folk. Shall we not grace them with our gratitude, my heart?”

There was only his face, so close, etched with an emotion you had never seen before: a vulnerable, aching hope, tinged with a possessiveness that thrilled and terrified. The crowd’s wish had given him a license he would never have dared assume on his own. His star-lit eyes asked a silent but urgent question.

Trapped, burning with embarrassment, you gave the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod. Perhaps, not permission for him, but a surrender to the moment.

In the very same second, Flins leaned in. The cool, ozone-and-rose scent of him enveloped you. His long, pale fingers came up, not to grasp you, but to gently, oh so gently, frame your face, his thumbs brushing your flaming cheeks. His touch was like being cradled by winter itself – breathtaking, shocking, reverent. And then he kissed you.

It was cold. Cold as the heart of an ice that barely remembers being water. But it was devastatingly soft. His mouth moved over yours with a hungry tenderness, a searching adoration that spoke of centuries of lonely yearning condensed into this single point of warmth.

For a moment, you forgot. You forgot the terror, the confusion, the marriage you’d fled and the one you stepped into after. In the gentle cold of his kiss, in the supportive sigh of the crowd around you, a strange feeling blossomed in your chest – a feeling that tasted like the memory of a lullaby, like the safety of a locked door against a storm.

But then, The Deadman’s Share erupted. The rustling applause became a joyful thunder of hands and the soft stomping of feet. Mugs thumped on tables in a happy rhythm.

Flins pulled away slowly, as if peeling his soul from yours. His eyes opened. A magnificent violet blush – the color of a twilight bruise, beautiful and tender – suffused his marble skin from his sharp cheekbones to the tips of his elven ears once again. Without a word, his meaning clearer than any speech, he took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours with a finality that felt like a lock clicking shut, and led you through the beaming crowd toward two empty stools at the end of the long, gleaming bar.

You followed, legs unsteady. As you reached the high stool, a lifetime of fending for yourself made your hand shoot out to grasp its back. But Flins was a breath faster. His cool hand closed over the polished wood, his body subtly displacing yours. He drew the stool out with a smooth motion, then stood beside it, waiting.

This… this attentive, anticipatory care.

It was hauntingly familiar. Varka had done this. He would pull out chairs with a flourish, hold doors with a booming “After you, little fury!”, his large hands making a spectacle of courtesy. The memory was a shard of the living world, sharp and sudden, piercing the delicate peace of the dead. A complex wave of guilt, confusion, and sadness washed over you.

What was happening up there, in the world of rain and rust and desperate hope? Were your parents already turned out of their crumbling house, wailing over their lost fortune rather than their lost daughter? Was Varka still crashing through the town, his voice growing hoarse, his love curdling into something darker? The thoughts were poison in this sweet air.

A presence shifted behind the bar, and you looked up.

Right in front of you stood a tall man, broad-shouldered, with a presence that seemed to absorb the tavern’s warmth and reflect it, steadier and quieter. His hair was a flowing mane of deep burgundy and rich mahogany, streaked with the fierce orange of dying embers. His beard, equally magnificent, was carefully groomed. But it was his eyes that held you. They were the color of old wine held before a dark fire, holding both warmth and a settled sorrow. He moved with an efficient grace, placing two ceramic tankards before you. They were simple, glazed in a milky grey, and within them, a liquid shimmered with an internal luminescence.

“For the newlyweds,” he said, his voice a pleasant rumble, like stones gently tumbling in a deep river.

“Thank you, Master Crepus,” Flins said, his voice smooth as oiled silk, but his eyes were on you, watchful as ever.

The tension snapped back, wire-tight. You stared at the drink meant for you. This was the heart of their world, offered in celebration. To refuse was the deepest insult, a rejection of their welcome, their joy, their very existence. The social terror of a peasant girl, trained to please, tangled with the primal terror of a soul in a gilded cage.

“I-I...” Your hand, resting on the bar, began to tremble. You balled it into a fist to still it, and the simple silver band on your finger caught the light, winking like a captive star.

Crepus’s garnet eyes dropped to your hand. He observed the ring, then the way your knuckles were white with strain. His gaze traveled up to Flins’s tensed features, then back to you, his own expression deepening into something unreadable. He leaned forward on his elbows, his voice dropping so only you two could hear, the friendly rumble now underlaid with a bedrock of seriousness.

“So,” he said, the word deliberate. “You breathe.”

You swallowed, the sound loud in your ears. “I do, sir.”

Master Crepus studied you – the living blush that wouldn’t settle, the subtle pulse in your throat, the anxious warmth radiating from you. He glanced at Flins once again, a question forming in his eyes.

“Forgive an old bartender’s curiosity,” he said, his voice so low it was almost lost in the tavern’s hum. “But the bond between a living heart and a still one… is rare. The vow that brought you here… was it freely spun? By both hands?”

The question hung in the air, sharp as a splinter of ice.

Did you choose this?

You had spoken words. You had given a ring. But was it a gift, or a surrender flung into the dark?

Flins’s hand shot out, covering your clenched fist on the bar. His grip was unnaturally crushing, a band of cold iron. His voice, when it came, had lost all its melodic softness, shifting to the crack of frozen lake ice, clear, hard, and dangerous.

“The nature of our vow,” Flins stated, each word a chip of falling frost, “is a garden enclosed. Its gates are not for strangers, no matter how… hospitable.”

Crepus held Flins’s glacial stare with selfless protectiveness. The air between them grew cold, the friendly warmth of the tavern receding as if repelled. The weary kindness in the bartender’s eyes didn’t fade, but it was joined by a flicker of grim understanding. He gave a slow, heavy nod, as if confirming a sad suspicion.

Flins rose, the movement swift and fluid. “The hour grows late for such chatter. Come, my heart,” he said, the term of endearment now sounding like a command. “We shall head to the tailor’s parlor.”

You slipped from the stool, relief at leaving warring with a new tingle of dread.

It was then Crepus spoke again.

“A thought for you, lass, since you still have a mind for thinking,” he said, and his tone held an almost paternal regret. “The vow goes as ‘Till death do us part.’ ”

You shifted numbly, the world tilting. You could not look at Crepus, at the pity and certainty in his fiery eyes.

Flins turned rapidly, tugging you close, too close, placing himself between you and the bar, and leading you swiftly toward the door. But Crepus’s final judgment followed you like a curse.

“The law is the law, Keeper, you two are already–”

Then, before the words could fully land, before Flins could spin around and unleash the storm gathering in his eyes, the heavy door of “The Deadman’s Share” swung shut behind you.

And there you stood, on the threshold of the tavern, stunned into silence.

.

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I know I'm a bit late, but Happy New Year (and very, very late Christmas), my loves! May this one treat us better than a previous one ;-; Honestly, I intended to end this before Christmas, but oh dear… Life is just too much sometimes. Why can't i just write my silly fics and enjoy my life as a hermit? :c

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im a single pringle who does not wish to mingle 💜