(Re)united
synopsis: if five hundred years ago Kyryll The Azure Flame had been told that one day he'd be able to hold his beloved close again - he wouldn't have believed it (but he would've still hoped).
Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins doesn't even have to dream, because he knows he can.
pairing and characters: Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins x fem!reader
tw: fluff, (re)established relationship (courting), a hint of angst, fae!reader, faes have pointy ears and fairy-like wings, reader has some backstory and particular skills
word count: 4.3k+ words
a/n: Goddamn I love this man so muuuuuuch and I had so much fun writing this piece (and remembered so many good songs with the vibe of yearning to listen to for the right mood)! Not 100% sure rn, but I may turn it into some kind of series!
The nights in Nod-Krai are dark and grim, especially in the Paha Island area. The evenings bring the mist, the chilling winds and the moonlight that twists the shadows to look like monsters. The Wild Hunt creatures get more restless, more daring, clawing through the earth, tearing ghastly looking gaps in space, all with the purpose of getting out, of hurting, of destroying.
Tonight, however, is a rare time of reprieve. Flins has personally inspected the zones with high risk of the Abyss reappearing, having been left satisfied with the lightkeeper’s seals that held the abysmal gates closed, having strengthened just a couple. As he’s wrapping up his nightly patrol, having already chosen the path to the lighthouse, the blue flames in his lantern dance softly, gently licking at the glass of their vessel, the weight of a huge spear seems lighter on his back, yet the aurelion gaze stays sharp and vigilant.
A lone weasel jumps out of the tall grass on his left and immediately leaps away with a startled, borderline scared squeak. Watching its urgent escape, the man can’t help but let out a low chuckle behind his tall collar - it always amused him how skittish animals got around his persona, sensing what people couldn’t, as if the beady eyes peered into his very non-human soul. Well, it sparks fear in the remnants of the hearts of the foe just as strongly, so he has nothing to complain about.
The ghosts however welcome him; appearing above the gravestones they float in the forms of translucent blobs, only several shaping into the images of the people they once were, silently following his figure’s every step with unblinking eyes, as if making sure their living companion has truly returned. How lovely, he’s been awaited.
Pulling out a pocket watch he became the owner of recently, the man clicks the lid open. Ah, yes, he’s gotten ‘home’ much earlier than planned, he supposes he could spare this time for interaction. Maybe tonight he’ll be able to ease another poor soul’s pain.
‘The happy folks don’t check their clocks’ they used to say in Snezhnaya, but Flins could claim the same about the long-livers in general. ’One hour earlier’ became ‘one hour later’ somewhen among the graves, with the two siblings, burried close, having a fight about the most meaningless thing ever. And the fae was quite engaged to simply leave the scene.
He steps into the lighthouse with the first rays of sunshine. Placing his lantern onto the table with a soft clank, Flins notices a couple of bones laid out on a piece of grey felt - the bones that most definitely weren’t there when he left this evening. Though it can wait, he decides, reaching for the cloth and wrapping some animal’s (if he had to guess from just one fleeting glance, he’d assume it once belonged to a mole) remnants and then carrying the bundle to a set of drawers in another room.
Emerging back in what used to be a visiting officer’s room - now turned into the ‘treasure chamber’ - the man moves to one of the racks of shelves, undoing the clasps of his long coat in the process. Tonight - this morning - he barely pays attention to the locked cases with gems, coins and jewelry inside. What he seeks is an intricately crafted teapot, originated from Liyue and having been gifted to one of his own kind a long-long time ago to aid on the journeys.
Crafted from the Clearwater Jade and Cor Lapis it looks like a new addition to his vast collection. And if it really was? Well, Flins thinks with a chuckle, shaking off the long garment from his shoulders to leave it over the back of the armchair and manifesting a golden seal between his gloved fingers.
In that case, he’d call it his most treasured item.
Stepping foot inside your domain, or, as you called it, 'the Realm Within', is…an experience the Ratnik can’t get used to even two and a half months later. First you feel a pull, and your feet lose the ground. Then it’s like the sun breathes warm air into your face (and the first couple of times, he, who’d been accustomed to the cold nights, got an unwelcomed feeling of unease). And then suddenly you find your footing again, heavy boots planted securely on the wooden boards of the house’s first floor room.
With the feeling of spatial awareness returning, Flins registers the tingling that starts in his ears and then goes down his body, and the sudden tightness of his shirt on the back. Now he hardly even flinches, but the first time you brought him here, the fae was, well, shocked. Despite your words of warning, he could not quite believe that the energy of the adepti might be so potent that it would easily unveil his carefully crafted disguise.
Yet, here he is, taking off his gloves and unbuttoning the long-sleeved shirt with steady fingers, sliding it slowly down one arm then another and bending over the bed to lay it out next to the one you’ve prepared for him. One with an opening on the shoulder blades.
The wings - shimmering, cerulean just like his flames - flutter freely, excitedly, when he rolls his shoulders and flexes his back muscles with a sigh that seems to escape from the depths of his being he’s forgotten existed. The delicate things catch on his untied long hair, and he has to reach behind, dividing the luscious locks in two parts and moving them to the front. The strands next to his face are pushed behind the pointy ears.
With the shirt changed, boots replaced by slippers and hands washed, the man tosses his hair over just one shoulder and, threading fingers through the myriad of thick tresses, making three equal ones, begins twisting them. He works fast and, despite the length, in a matter of minutes finishes a neatly done braid. Now he needs a ribbon, and he knows where to find one.
He locates you effortlessly in one of the rooms - bless the sharpened senses (and the closeness of one of his kind). Sitting on the padded stool next to the window, you lift your gaze when he enters. Your eyes sparkle like the most precious gems, and none in his collection can rival the radiance (he’d know, as he attempted to search for one back then when you two were noble). Your hair, so soft and pretty (he still remembers taking a lock in his fingers and giving it a reverent kiss a long-long time ago), is held back with an intricate pin; the beaded extensions sway gently in sync with the stray locks when you move your head. Your lips– oh, your lips are pressed together in a ghost of a peaceful smile (the memory of them twisting in a shape of hopelessness still haunts him sometimes).
Your clothes are comfortable, but still can be called ‘modest’ - old habits die hard, and the lightkeeper would be dishonest, if he claimed he didn’t like the familiarity of the sight. It feels like you weren’t apart for centuries. He can almost trick himself into thinking you both are exactly the same as you were the last time you held his hand as his darling.
Chasing the unpleasant memory like he would sometimes shoo the phantoms away, Flins spots the embroidery frame in your hands, which you lower onto your lap, securing the needle in the piece of cloth. Your eyebrow, however, lifts as your eyes fixate on the untied braid, held firmly by the ends in his hands.
“I’ll soon run out of those, Kyryll,” while taunting, your tone lacks malice; a wider, more tangible smile stretches the corners of your mouth, and you shake your head.
The fae before you smiles too, unapologetically so. He can’t help but to keep and never return each ribbon you give him, desiring to get a new one every time he ‘visits’. To have something of yours, a trinket you offer just to him, the reminder that you were– are next to him and still have fondness in your heart to keep entertaining his whims.
Maybe one day he’ll tie them together and the length will be enough to wrap around your and his wrist and be indissoluble no matter how far away from each other you’ll end up.
“Ah, how unfortunate - to be scolded by a fair lady before even saying the words of greetings, I must’ve enraged you terribly. Accept my sincerest apologies.”
“Sincerest?” You repeat, smiling wider, tilting your head with a huff. “Mmm I do not believe you, Kyryll, but you know that I am benevolent. You are forgiven.”
Putting the embroidery set face down onto the windowsill, you stand up gracefully, brushing non-existent dust from the spotless clothes. The man - kindly excused - watches you not daring to blink, with those haunting yellow eyes you once were ready to submerge in and stay in their depths forever. Were..? Oh, right, the past tense no longer outlines your union.
The thought stirs something deep in your chest, and your wings flutter lightly.
“Good morning, my heart’s intended,” your voice drops to a softer tone, making the man shudder and almost close his eyes. You seize the opportunity, seeing his distraction as a chance to be bold, and lean up on your toes. A chaste kiss burns Flins’s cheek much stronger than a biting lick of Snezhnayan blizzard, but instead of chills wrecking his body, heat shoots through it in the form of azure fire that was stirred by your affection. He is sure, his ears lack the usual paleness right now, and it’s safe to bet that had he not left his lantern behind - it would’ve ignited.
Strangely, he doesn’t even want to curse the domain for stripping him from all of his concealing tricks and defenses.
“Good morning to you too, the flame of my soul,” He eventually hums, transferring the end of the braid to his left hand and lowering the right one to graze your elbow with just the fingertips in reverence. “It’s true, I am indeed aware that your benevolence knows no bounds,” huh, how skilled this man is with his words, especially twisting them to his benefit, you think with a chuckle you do not let out, “thus I dare to ask for the honor to hold your hands and lay kisses to them. But, alas, I need both my hands for that.”
“I haven’t even granted you this honor, and you are already making demands. What a greedy man,” you say that, but still step back to turn and walk to the broad chest of drawers by the opposite wall.
He opens his mouth to retort with a ‘you love me after all’... but no sound leaves it.
You loved him. Tenderly, having woven affection into each hushed murmur of his name; profoundly, yet having been forced to share a loving embrace in the dim corridors behind the heavy curtains, outside the ballrooms, just so the other nobles didn’t chew at you for the lack of reserve; desperately, holding onto his hands, swooning with happiness as he promised to propose to you properly and make the engagement official once he’d return from an urgent trip to the land he owned…
A promise he failed to fulfill, because His Majesty married you off to another like a trophy.
He knows you love him still. It’s in the way you recognized him instantly upon stumbling into each other at the Nashatown market centuries later. It’s in your eyes that lit up and welled up with tears the first time he whispered your name in disbelief. It’s the embrace you enveloped him in tightly the moment you were away from prying eyes, crying quietly into his chest, so-so happy he was alive. It’s his touch that you didn’t shy away from, letting your past lover cup your cheeks to have a better look at your lovely face, tuck stray strands of hair behind your ears - human like his, adorned with the earrings he gifted you back then, caress your hands, noting the roughness of the skin there where used to be softness of the silk, but bringing them to his lips the same manner he always knew how to.
It’s remarkable how quickly you two fell into some of your old habits, into the dynamic you once had, rekindling the flame of your relationship. It happened in a blur - your decision to settle in Nod-Krai, 'moving in' together, exchanging your life stories, picking up where your courting was cut off cruelly, building your way of life together…
It’s like our souls knew they’d eventually be reunited, you said one morning, standing on top of the lighthouse, shoulder to shoulder, his hand on top of yours on the railing, watching the sunrise, and Flins couldn’t agree more.
He knows you love him, and he is aware it’s hard for you to say it out loud after…well, everything. He understands, for he too can’t utter the exact words just yet. It’s been so long, and while he doesn’t doubt his own feelings, it’s painful. The memory of your somber expression and precious gems of eyes stripped from their sparkle as the noble, whose name and face he didn’t bother to remember, introduced you as his wife. The guilt that overtook him for betraying your hopes by being so tardy. The weight of the ring in his chest pocket, the ring that he got to propose, to match the earrings you were not wearing, the ring he had to get rid of, as he had no purpose for it, only to torture himself.
Because the word of the Belyi Tsar was the law to the fae. Because the ‘I love you’ wasn’t enough.
“It is impossible not to be greedy with you,” he whispers softly instead, but he is sure you caught that and smiled. You understand.
While your back is turned to him, his gaze travels to your wings. They are long - longer than his, resting against your back like a shimmering veil when inactive in contrast to his own which are always upwards unless he forces them to flatten. He could trace the patterns on the left wing forever with his eyes and still find a new pretty curl of a line. Doing the same with your right one… Inevitably brings attention to the fact that the three quarters of it are replaced by the canvas of the moon-illumnated midnight sky beauty.
You told him your story - how you used the stir caused by the ruler and regime change in the nation of Cryo to get out of the marriage you were forced into, how you lost your wing in an unfortunate turn of events following your fleeing from Snezhnaya, how last bits of strength left you in the land of Liyue, and how a kind-hearted adeptus found your unconscious body, took you in and nursed you back to health.
The Fortune Weaver became a friend, a mentor, a familial figure you’d never had. She taught you one of her arts - embroidery, turning threads and beads and gems alike into marvelous patterns and images. She showed how to use a needle and a thread to lay out a path for luck, protection, recovery and many more. She gave you something to occupy your hands with, and it became everything for your shaken self, for your awfully depressed mind. Where he, exhausted and disappointed, chose to fall into slumber, you were gently guided to keep dwelling.
She bore the title of the Fortune Weaver not for nothing - possessing the ability to weave thread from anything precious, she worked tirelessly to find a suitable material to repair your poor wing. When none of the fabrics known to adeptus managed to replicate the delicate glow, the crystalline beauty and tangible firmness with their fibers, she turned to the local ores.
The ‘original’ wing is light and trembles with every movement you make, while the other one… Of course it’s thin and translucent too, however the keen eye sees foreign weight in it. Kyryll can’t help but be enchanted by the chatoyant blue of the Noctilucous Jade. It’s perfect, even though it differs from your original color. The shimmering surface catches the light, letting it travel in every direction across the paths of patterns the adeptus so lovingly crafted for you, and he knows for the fact it glimmers in the dark.
Unique and precious - just like you.
“Choose.”
The fae blinks, belatedly realizing his mind has wandered off again, and he hasn’t noticed when you stopped rummaging through one of the drawers and returned to stand in front of him. He shifts the focus of wide-open eyes to you; they are so ridiculously big and round right now, that you can’t hold back a chuckle.
“What?” He blinks again, eyelids finally lowering enough to hide half of the haunting yellow disks.
“My, my, I wonder what’s on your mind,” musing, you lift the carved wooden box that’s gotten noticeably emptier since you arrived in Nod-Krai. “Come on, pick one, so I can tie your braid and offer you my hands for those kisses you promised.”
The man perks up instantly, being reminded of his own bargain, and glances down at the box’s contents. He doesn’t think twice before reaching for the ribbon that is matching your current outfit most. You notice, you always do, having recognized the pattern of his choice early in this peculiar arrangement. You think it’s adorable; it reminds you of his past habit to match the gem brooches on his cravat to your colors.
With the box put back to its rightful place, you return to the stool and lower yourself onto it. Flins follows suit: down onto one knee in front of you and offering you the end of his braid. Your fingers, roughened by hardships and pricked by the needle, brush against his lightly, and quickly undo some of the braided length, enough to insert the middle of the ribbon and weave it along the strands you begin twisting again. He settles his palms on your knees, waiting, watching you work on his hair with precision.
“Your four-legged friend stopped by,” the man shifts his gaze from your hands to your face, “He followed me all the way to the island from where I stumbled into him– or him into me? No matter. I gave him that meat you showed me, retrieved the bones and laid them out in your treasure room.”
“Ah, yes, I indeed saw those earlier,” he nods, lifting one hand to help you hold the end of the braid so you could tie a pretty bow, “and for that I’m most grateful.”
Before you can even think of retreating your hands, Kyryll catches both wrists in a gentle yet firm hold. The braid falls, smacking his chest and stomach, but he doesn’t care. Still standing on one knee before you, the lightkeeper brings both your hands closer, turning them so the palms are facing him, and plants a gentle kiss to each wrist. Thumbs smooth over the plains of your palms and slide further up to uncurl your fingers. He stares at the palmar creases, at the veins that are seen through the skin, at the small scars - he wants to kiss every single one. Again.
Your gaze has softened the moment Flins’s hands wrapped around yours. You watch him examine them closely, choosing where to plant the next kiss. The first time he did that, here, in your domain, it made you nervous; a memory of him leaning his cheek into your palm with a soft murmur of a praise for their delicateness resurfaced, and you got acutely aware that despite the creams and lotions you could no longer bring your skin to the perfect state. All the defects were out in the open, no longer concealed by your magic. But Kyryll paid attention to every single one, telling you that every small cut and callus told a story (he couldn’t wait to hear them all) and served as proof of your skill. Weren’t you proud of yourself?
You stopped covering your hands with magic when mingling with humans.
The lightkeeper meanwhile has showered both your palms with a series of small pecks, making the nerve endings there tingle and your wings tremble in response to affection. Next he switches to your fingers. Starting from where they meet with a palm he lays a path of kisses all the way to the fingertips, from the pinkie of your right hand to the pinkie of your left. He is slow and intimate, brushing his cold, slightly chapped lips over your hands in an act of quiet devotion, dedication. His own wings twitch slightly whenever a soft breath passes your lips and fans across his forehead.
As he turns your palms downwards to show his admiration to your knuckles, you suddenly stop him. Lifting his gaze, Kyryll peers at you inquiringly; if you didn’t know him so well, you would’ve missed the telltale signs of his pouting. How charming.
Twisting your hands, you free them from his hold and bring them to his face, cupping both cheeks. Your dearest immediately closes his eyes, leaning into the left palm and locking his fingers around your wrists loosely. The sigh that leaves his throat is one of adoration and relief, but your keen ear also recognizes lassitude.
Your thumb smoothes the darkened skin under his eye. Up close, with soft light cast upon his features, the tiredness etched into them is so much more evident. You can see his long lashes tremble and eyelids twitch from the movement behind them; his shoulders dropped just when you touched him, and the weight of his head - now more supported than simply held - is quite tangible.
“You need rest,” you tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, playfully grazing a pointy tip with the pad of your finger. Male’s lips tug into a small content smile, and he turns his face even more into your palm, rubbing his nose against it. You decide to keep caressing the sensitive ridge in gratitude for his earlier affection (and definitely not because he is melting under your ministrations like a chunk of ice under the scorching sun). “I know for a fact that yesterday and the day before that, you spent the whole time filling out the reports, while I was out in the city.”
“They were piling up…” is his answer, murmured into your hand.
“And whose fault is that?” You can’t help but huff, poking his cheek.
Slowly, purposefully leisurely Kyryll peeks at you with half-lidded eyes. He is looking at you long and without blinking, as if committing your half-worried half-annoyed expression to his memory (he is), before shifting his weight from the bent leg and tucking it under himself too. Now, kneeling like a worshipper, not a gentleman, the fae releases your wrists and wraps both arms around your legs; his head falls onto your lap, cheek pressing to your thigh, allowing him to look at you with one eye.
“Mmm, definitely yours, dearest.”
“Of course,” you sigh with a shake of your head, expecting something along such lines. Oh how cheeky and shameless this man is. “Is it because any other time you’re off your Ratnik duty you can’t help but be attached to me?”
“I am but a moth drawn to your radiant light,” Flins doesn’t deny your little jab, but he can feel his ears heating up again, especially since you resume your caresses. “However, as you are sooo concerned for my health, is it soon that you plan to retire to bed?”
“I probably should...” he sees you turning your head to glance at the clock on the wall, and he turns his head too, but to face the window, offering his neglected ear to your soft brushes, “...but I wanted to finish my work first. It will not take too much time.”
That’s when his gaze fixates on the embroidery set you left on the windowsill minutes earlier (minutes? Ah, it feels like he’s been here for hours).
“What marvelous piece are you working on today, my crafty lady? Another commission?”
“Actually it’s something for you,” he doesn’t jolt, or crane his neck to look at you, but his arms hug your legs tighter and two tiny flickers of flame bolt from the bases to the tips of his wings. “I want it to be a surprise, so if you are patient and do not peek, I’ll let you stay.”
To that Kyryll demonstratively shuts his eyes close and buries his face into the fabric on your thighs. Well, not exactly what you meant, but it’ll do. It’s not like you are about to make him spell the words of a promise to you out loud (though you definitely could). Besides you never specified he needed to make one, so it shouldn’t surprise you that this man, your dear cunning man, interpreted it to his advantage.
“Are you comfortable?” Your fingers thread through the thick locks at the back of his head, giving his scalp a few scratches. After hearing a muffled purr of an ’incredibly so’, you pat his head one more time and then reach for your tools.
Truth be told, you were only half honest when you said you were making something for him. It’s for the both of you - a pair of handkerchiefs, a belated sign that you officially accept his courting, an offering to solidify your union– reunion even.
Yours is already finished and tucked away safely, and his needs just a couple more stitches, so you can’t help but feel giddy at the prospect of presenting the matching set on the next date Kyryll has already asked you out to.
And something tells you he’ll love it.
taglist: @limeiryll, @rosyche, @butteronabun, @lilimtzmj2
