Flins has always had a soulmate, but… it's never truly seemed real. Among the many fae species, approximately half have a soulmate; those that do have a timer upon the wrist of their humanoid forms, ticking down second by second. Some wait years to see their soulmates, others never even get a chance to see their timers — meeting their soulmates before cultivating the power and skill necessary to maintain a humanoid shell.
Of these fae, Flins is the only one to have an unfathomably large number upon the wrist of his human shell. Others looked at him, with awe that he would live so long, or pity that he must suffer such a lonely existence for centuries. At his lowest point, laying himself in that grave, the number hadn't even fallen into decades. Centuries remained until he'd meet his soulmate, and… perhaps selfishly, he hoped to never wake up. To never meet them in his pitiful state, for surely any being deemed his perfect match would be given too great a burden in caring for his detestable self.
So he fell into a deep slumber, wishing pitifully that it was easier to kill such a parasitic being as he.
Upon waking, he had gotten swept up with the Lightkeepers, he had been given purpose, and the clothing of his humanoid guise did not make gazing upon his wrist easy. If it were not for the burning sensation when his gaze met the young master's, he would've forgotten all about the soulmate he'd waited centuries for.
The young man beams a smile rivalling the sun, and introduces himself — Illuga, son of the Starshyna, Captain of the Nightmare Orioles, who has come to deliver supplies to the solitary Lightkeeper protecting Final Night Cemetery. He is as vibrant as the sun itself, a determined, guiding light to all his coworkers.
He is also painfully human.
Flins has waited centuries for the one who would bring his life purpose, who would finally give his worthless existence meaning… and he is greeted by a human. Bright as the sun, kind and stubborn and honest, perfection incarnate… and mortal. A scant 26 years to his nearly 700. A light that would burn so brightly, for perhaps a century more, likely less.
As Flins invites the young master in, he can't help but be bitter. Perhaps he hoped for too much, perhaps such a weak mind as his could not bear another century, even with a soulmate to anchor him. Perhaps, given a partner to spend centuries with, any choice would inevitably grow exhausted of him.
Indeed, a short-lived sun is the perfect soulmate for a fae without a will to live. When the nightingale stops singing, the Azure Flame will burn his casket, and never again awaken to the cries of the lost.
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