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── a fragment of my soul. flins x f!reader

─ · · dark content, mdni: topics of death and murder, necromancy-adjacent themes, dark romance, grief, spectral intimacy, mild obsession, slow-burn attraction

♱ word count: 7k

♱ synopsis: among the northern graves of nod-krai, flins finds a final resting place that should have crumbled long ago—and the ghost who lingers with it. she haunts him like a shadow, fuelled by rage, bitter with betrayal, yet he does not turn her away. in the realm where the dead still breathe, their steps entwine: a kindred bond between gravekeeper and restless spirit, where resentment becomes adoration, and love takes root in soil meant only for silence

"Ghosts are the echoes of living souls — a portion of their thoughts and memories that, for certain reasons, fails to enter the Ley Lines at the moment of their death. And thus they linger on the surface." Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins

A/N: since i don't really consider my fics fitting for the kinky kinktober, but rather spooky / horror / dead dove tales, the name "kinktober" is mostly used because "horrortober" isn't a thing. i don't think sfw will reach many, but well, i enjoyed writing it! <3

𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓: 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞

Nod-Krai's fog is restless. It licks at the iron walls of the lighthouse, moves in silver ribbons between the gravestones of the Final Night Cemetery, and carries whispers of the dead. Flins has walked these grounds countless times with the patient calm of a man long accustomed to shadows.

The usual rows of graves pass beneath his languid stride, with his lantern spilling light across names he has long since memorised. It is routine, duty even. The weight of his uniform sits comfortably on him, though it doesn't keep the chill from gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

Tonight, at long last, his feet stray beyond the usual rows he tends to, beyond the clusters of headstones, past the watchful statues of angels worn faceless by years of wind. Behind the cliffs of the island lies a part of the graveyard nobody ever visits.

Flins knows he should turn back.

And yet… Something in the air here is different. The mist feels heavy like a thick curtain, as if reluctant to disturb or reveal what lies beneath. At his feet, a scatter of blooms the colour of the pale blue sky—forget-me-nots—thrives stubbornly in soil that has long abandoned life. Their petals glisten with dew, delicate and heartbreakingly vivid against sand and earth. They ring a grave so old, its stone is cracked in two, the inscription almost erased by time.

It is nothing more but a forgotten resting place, it should be nothing more but a forgotten resting place, but the azure light of Flins's lantern seems to bend toward the gravestone, as though a secret lies hidden to be revealed. His gloved fingers hover above the broken headstone before brushing away a layer of dirt. The name beneath is almost gone, but something about the curve of the letters compels him.

Your name.

Flins reads it once, quietly, letting the syllables linger on his tongue like the taste of a long-lost treasure. His lantern's light slides over the stone, catching on the faint relief of a carving—a pair of intertwined hands, one skeletal, one whole.

Flins isn't certain why, but he kneels beside the grave and lets his palm rest on the weathered granite, gloved fingers tracing the shallow groove of your name. The ground beneath seems oddly warm; of course, not with life, no, but with a strange pull, like the melancholy of a memory.

A pull that makes him return the next night. And the one after.

Sometimes he only remains for a few minutes, speaking to no one, simply letting the quiet seep into him. Other times, he lingers for hours, and for some reason even places his lantern on the ground beside the headstone—as if to offer you his light.

And every time, Flins feels that faint warmth grow stronger.

────────── ♱ The first time you stir, it begins as an impossible shiver. A sudden ripple through marrow that should have long been dust by now, a fracture in the cold cathedral of your bones that have been locked away for centuries in their quiet embrace beneath the soil.

Your body, once soft, once warm, is now a ruin of stillness. The tatters of your dress cling as though ivy has rooted itself to you, the pale fabric stained by the slow seep of earth and crimson betrayal. Time has gnawed its edges but never quite finished the feast.

And then comes the call. Not words, no syllables you can name, but a presence—low and insistent—presses against the inside of your silence until cracks begin to show; as though a lantern has been lit in the farthest corner of your darkness.

Above, the flowers stir. The familiar Forget-me-nots tilt towards the sound of approaching footsteps. Their blue petals appear to unfurl as if they are listening, leaning toward the rhythm of his tread.

You do not rise all at once. You gather in fragments; in the faint tremor of a breath you no longer have, in the shadow of a heartbeat, in the fingers remembering the curve of a hand you once held.

At first, you are nothing but a sigh in the dark, a draft that whispers through the far corners of the cemetery. Then, a shape at the edge of vision, the faintest trace of a figure that dissolves the moment one dares to look. Later still, you cling to him, a shadow that lingers when he turns to leave, just close enough that the light of his lantern falters at the edges.

And Flins notices.

Years of silence have tuned his senses sharp: He knows when fog is nothing more than weather, and when it carries something different, in your case, that something is the heavy burden of resentment.

The air itself shifts when you linger; a hush pressing at the edges of his hearing, a cold that does not belong to the night. He does not startle, not once, none of your antics unsettle Flins. Much rather, they all fascinate him.

Once, he pauses on the way back towards the lighthouse. It appears the mist has forgone its curtain call—it clings too close, nearly embracing his body, and though there is nothing to see, he feels you. A touch, light as a hand resting on his shoulder. His head turns slightly to seek what refuses to show itself as Flins speaks into the emptiness: "If you mean to haunt me, then please, do it properly." There is no mockery in his tone much rather his words almost seem inviting, challenging in their own way.

And so, you follow. The very next night.

────────── ♱ Flins wakes before dawn, the lamps in his quarters long since dead. It is the silence that rouses him—too deep, too wrong to belong to the living. His gaze follows certain movements in the dark as he shifts to ready himself for the day.

Though most certainly, his reflection is no longer alone in the mirror. You linger behind him, pale and blurred, as if the silver cannot quite hold you yet. Each time he turns, you are gone, yet the scent lingers—faint as forget-me-nots crushed underfoot.

Since then, you cling to Flins. When he walks the graveyard's paths, you drift at his shoulder without fail. Sometimes, you hover just beyond the circle of light, watching how the lantern dusts his features in azure. Other times, you draw nearer, so close that the chill of you tickles the curve of his ear.

He never hurries. Never looks at you as danger, but your rage beats restless inside your chest. His stride stays measured, yet sometimes you notice the faintest adjustment: a space left open, as if meant for you to claim.

Occasionally, Flins will stop without warning, tilt his head, listen to breath that is not there as the silence between you grows heavier.

Once mist slips like fingers between you, you dare to reach, to let your fingertips hover just shy of his sleeve. He does not flinch, does not move away. His attention is firmly pointed at the ripple of your hand in the lantern's glow. And while his expression may remain one of calm, the gentle curve to his eyelids speaks of a decision: You are no trespasser, you are company.

When he resumes walking, his voice is pitched low, meant more for the mist than for you. "Stay close, then. If you mean to."

It is an acknowledgement greater than anything the world has offered you since the earth first shut you away.

────────── ♱ By the third night, you grow bolder. You follow him between headstones, a pale shape appearing at the corner of his light, vanishing whenever he dares to look head-on. Flins notices every small thing: the drag of fog as you drift, the faint hum when your form passes. He learnt long ago to listen for absence, not sound, to feel when the night carries more than wind and stone.

You are silence, and silence has weight—Flins has always been a man who bears weight well.

So, he does not ask you to stop. Instead, he slows down for you; the lantern swings lower now as well, opening wider shadows where you may linger without dissolving altogether. Once, before a crumbling stone, his eyes flick sideways but not to the grave, instead to the blur of your figure swaying at the light's edge.

The acknowledgement is wordless and plain: he sees you.

The gesture urges you to draw close enough for your hand to hover above his shoulder, for your chill to weave through heavy fabrics. You expected Flins to stiffen, to flee. Instead, his posture stays calm, steady, almost like he has known such company before.

It is in this this very moment, through the faintest connection of living and dead, that you find enough strength within you to make the wind shift. In return, his head tilts toward the mellow scent of the forget-me-nots as a small smile softens his mouth.

"If you will not let me walk alone, then I do hope you find the strength to walk beside me," spoken with a tone of a man who is accustomed to ghosts of many kinds, and who finds no harm in one more.

But it is his gaze that unsettles you most; this steadfast regard to your being, and the gesture slowly begins to undo the coil of your fury. The rage that has tethered you here loosens, unsure how to burn at someone who will not fear you, pity you, or banish you.

You have been feared, prayed at, and driven away. You have never… been seen. Flins sees you. He sees the fragments of you, of the woman you were, the anger you wear like a shroud, and he does not turn aside.

────────── ♱ And at last, on the thirteenth night, your bond is strengthened enough for you to pull Flins under.

The evening had been wrong from the start—the air too still, the mist too thick, weaving low around the crooked stones like it meant to hide them from his eyes. Even his boots seemed to fall quieter on the damp earth, each step muffled, as if he was already treading somewhere that did not belong to the living.

He stops, as always, before your grave, but the light tonight is strange—swallowed away too soon by the darkness, as though the air itself resisted illumination.

Before Flins can solve the riddle, the world itself seems to tilt like a sudden change in seasons: fog darkens into a drawn curtain, the whisper of wind dies, silence closes like a shutter. When the curtain parts, the ground beneath his feet is no longer earth but a dark thing that moves like water, patterned in endless currents.

And you? You stand whole. Not the brittle relic the earth keeps, but flesh and presence restored. With bright eyes, softly falling hair and the pale dress of a promised bride. Your eyes burn with a fury caged behind them, though it is not aimed at him.

For a moment you stand still, and so does Flins.

His own eyes are cool, steady, and meet yours without flinching. The familiar curiosity greets you, alongside a sure recognition that your meeting was no accident. The air between you feels oddly taut, almost like a thread pulled a little too tight across the space where life and death meet; his knuckles flex once against the lantern's handle in a habit that is near nervous.

Then, Flins finally dares to break the silence lingering between. "For one who haunts so persistently, you do a rather terrible job." The words are not scolding. They are offered like a mild observation, a faint thread of dry humour beneath the formality. "Your attempts at shadows and whispers are admirable, but you leave your mark. Poorly, I might add."

You glance up sharply at him, startled into a small huff of breath that might almost be a laugh. "You had me figured out right away…"

"Since the first night." His eyes remain on you, steady, assessing. "You trail frost across the stones, shift the lantern light when you think I'm not looking. If you intend to unsettle me, you should commit properly." It should sound like a reprimand—but it does not.

No, Flins rather decides to make these words sound like an invitation for you to haunt him better.

"Is that why you never stopped me?" You question near incredulously at the sight of this man, this being, who isn't the slightest bit afraid of you. "I wondered how long it would take you to appear," Flins confesses while taking a step closer then. "I have stood guard over many graves. Not all of them return the courtesy."

You study him for any hint of ill-intent, for a reason to do your worst and unleash your anger upon him. Though you find none, neither mockery nor malice. "You make it sound as though I've done you some discourtesy."

He inclines his head, faintly. "On the contrary. You have been… a persistent company."

Your eyes cannot be made to falter, however they soften. "I was not trying to unsettle you."

Something flickers at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of a smile one might suspect. "No," he agrees quietly. "You were not." Flins stops an arm's reach away, close enough that your fingers might easily entwine if you wish.

"You're angry," he murmurs then. It is not posed as a question so much as an ascription. "Anger is a powerful tether. Would you entrust upon me the reason why do you linger?"

The question stuns you into a softness you had forgotten, and momentarily, you must refind your voice. "I was left," the confession comes like a ledge giving way beneath your feet. "I was promised the world, and I was buried in it instead."

For a long breath, he says nothing, then, gloved fingers carefully brush yours. In this place where the living should not be able to touch the dead, you feel the press of warm against your cold.

You wish to pull away, to return to the sanctuary of your coffin, but instead, your thumb treads the ridge of his knuckle as if testing that he will not evaporate like many other things.

The stillness about Flins is absolute; he lets you press at the boundary of his presence without retreat. The steadiness unnerves more than any exorcism.

And for the first time in decades, the grip of your fury relaxes enough for something else to slip through. "I should hate you for waking me," you whisper. His mouth shifts, not quite a smile but something sly, the suggestion of a curve almost daring. "If hatred is what you choose, then direct it well. But forgive me if I find it difficult to believe, when you stand so near."

The tilt of his voice tests, tempts, and invites you to step past the words into something else entirely. And so you follow the invite and step close enough for your dress to brush against the black of his coat. "If you come back here," you begin, with a hint of uncertainty to the quiet ring of your voice. "To this place. I'll tell you… everything."

Time ticks away, Flins feels himself being pulled back to reality, though parting ways with you slowly becomes unbearable. It's why he hesitates, why his eyes linger on your intact face and gentled expressions before, without ceremony, he inclines his head once.

"I will," he promises, with words that are low and formal. Then the shadows loosen, the indigo fades and the pull towards your grave tugs at you again. Though still, the gentle ring of Flins's voice lingers, the certain vow of a man you know will answer.

────────── ♱ He came back.

The thought strikes you the moment the air shifts inside this realm of shadow and stillness—the signal of his arrival. Nights have passed since the veil last parted, each one heavier than the last, pressing upon your chest with the unspoken fear that perhaps he would decide you were not worth the return.

But then the fog splits, and Flins stands before you once more. His figure cuts stark against the vast dark, the same unyielding presence he carries in the mortal world. He does not belong here, and yet he almost looks at home.

Your eyes find another near instantly. This time, there is no hesitation, no probing, as if he had known precisely where you would be, as though he had been walking towards you long before the curtains gave way. He accepts the darkness in equal amounts as he has accepted your hauntings: with a patience and the quiet certainty of a man who does not resist inevitability.

You experience a similar pull, a certainty that causes the hem of your dress to whisper against the dark ground as you cross to where Flins awaits, each step quickening until you are close enough for your fingers to ghost against the back of his gloved hand.

"You came." The words carry more breath than sound, yet they do move him all the same. "I promised I would," Flins answers, with an even, almost formal tone, "and I always keep my promises."

His eyes scour yours with the kind of focus that leaves nothing hidden, checking in to realise he feels the same relief you do, the same settling between the ribs, the confirmation of something already decided: that you are worth returning to.

And though he does not smile, there is a shift in him—his shoulders ease, his hand tilts ever so slightly towards yours. Not grasping, not claiming, only answering the touch you dared to give.

For a long moment, you only look at him, drinking in the proof of his presence, the steady line of his gaze, so often unreadable, yet here, with you, it is stripped of all caution. It is disarming, almost unbearable, to be met without fear, to be seen not as a ghost nor curse but as something worth standing before. "You look at me," you murmur, your voice fraying like a thread pulled too thin, "as if you expect me to still be… myself. Human."

"Because you are," Flins replies quickly, his words quiet but resolute. Then, after a beat, the faintest tilt of his head causes his fringe to shift and soften his features. "Though I suspect you no longer believe that of yourself."

He studies you like a man at a graveside who is reading names until they are carved into his memory. "I should like to know why you linger. Yet I will not demand it of you. The dead are owed more dignity than the living ever gave."

The restraint is startling—a patience you have not known in centuries—causing your voice to emerge before you can stop it. "When you first came to that place, I was still… gone. Only bones beneath stone. But something in you, in your presence, pulled me here again. Not all at once. Little pieces, night after night. You drew breath into a thing that had forgotten how to breathe."

His expression shifts subtly, the line of his mouth tightening as a tension flickers at the edge of his jaw, yet his eyes never leave yours. "You've been alone a long time."

"Long enough to lose faith in the living," you confess bitterly. "Humankind is… grasping. Cruel. They take and take until there is nothing left." Yet Flins does not soften his gaze, nor move to contradict you. "I've seen that," he agrees gently in between your hesitation, "too often."

The words carry more than agreement. They carry memory, shadows you will never see, scars you will never touch, but you recognise the burden of one who has known cruelty and borne its cost.

Here, where the dead owe the living nothing, he does not press, does not grasp, he simply accepts whatever you offer him. And before you can silence yourself, the words pour out. "My fiancé," you begin, the title bitter, "promised me a life. But all he wanted was the fortune that would come with it. The night before our wedding, he buried me here."

Flins's gloved hand curls once into a fist, loosens, then curls again. You feel the storm beneath it, a storm so like your own, and only when it seems safe for him to speak again, he replies softly. "Then it is not life you lost. It was the promise of it. That betrayal wounds deeper than the grave."

It is shocking how perfectly Flins manages to give shape to the pain you have carried namelessly for centuries.

"So you see," you say, sharper, "why I've had enough of humankind." His silence rests longer this time, until at last, he speaks with the weight of a blade unsheathed. "You are right." The starkness startles you. No lie, no hollow comfort, only conviction plain and simple, almost like he has seen enough of humankind's rot to echo your anger.

"I know," you admit quietly, "and… I think you might understand."

His expression grows gentle once more, and his own voice appears lower now. "I do," the admission rests heavily between you. It feels like the first step across a threshold neither of you should have crossed, yet both of you already knew you would.

For the first time in decades, perhaps longer, your fury slackens its grip. Not gone, never gone, but eased. And somehow, twisted though it may be, you know Flins feels it too. His hand finds yours again—bare this time, the glove tucked aside, stripping himself of one thin barrier. His palm is warm against around your frost, yet his hold is careful, the pressure steady and never forceful.

Neither does Flins recoil from the cool of your touch, nor do you retreat from his warmth. Even as the contrast creeps into veins, you only tighten the grasp, anchoring as if daring the world to break the contact.

It burns almost painfully, like a memory forced back into a body that no longer knows where to keep it, but still you endure, still you crave, because the contact feels more real than the ground you are buried in.

"I shall return," Flins says at last, the words quiet. "So long as you will have me."

It is not a grand vow, nor does it need to be. All you need is the steadiness of a man who does not squander promises. He offers it as fact, plain and composed, with the same inevitability as a tide returning to the shore.

And for the first time since the grave released you, you do not think of yourself as something ruined. You think of yourself as treasured.

────────── ♱ It takes more than seven nights before the veil draws him back. Agonising days and nights you have spent once again as nothing but a cold gust of air, a shadow behind his back, a lingering thought in his mind.

The lantern comes first, the azure flame caged in wrought metal, its glow cutting a line through the mist. In response, your heart, or rather, what remains of it, leaps. The sight of that flame means he is close.

Your steps are quick, too quick, betraying the nights you counted in resentment and solitude. The light of the lantern mingles with your own, pale silver and ghostly blue, weaving until you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.

Relief breaks from your chest before you can cage it. "I thought—" The words splinter under their weight. You force them to become whole. "I thought you might not return."

"I made a vow to you," Flins assures gently. The reminder is simple, yet it manages to break relief from your chest. "Eleven nights," you huff out. "I counted them all."

Though his features remain composed, the barest suggestion of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth at your fire. "Counting the days of my absence," Flins notes smoothly. "And yet, you haunted every one of them regardless. If this is your method of keeping time, you may want to improve it."

Heat rushes to your voice before you can stop it. "It's not the same." The words spill raw and unpolished, but you catch yourself, catch your resentment and choose not to direct it at Flins. Softer now, you confess: "I wanted to speak to you. To be more than a shadow clinging at your heels."

For a heartbeat, he says nothing, then a faint gesture of approval follows in the form of an incline of his head. "At last, an honest answer."

The praise leads you to reveal the weight that rests heavily on your dead heart. "Each time you leave… it is as if I am buried again."

A silent apology and invitation follows as Flins extends his hand towards you, and he appears to look at you with a newfound—or perhaps once well-hidden—fondness. "Then take my hand. If you would have more than silence, you need only accept."

Your form wavers faintly in the starlit dark until you reluctantly lift your hand and place it in his. But this time the touch feels heavier than before, as his fingers close over yours, firm yet measured, to seal a pact. "Consider this a reprieve from burial. So long as you hold on to me, you will not fade."

Something rushes through you; not air, not blood, but a source of energy. Enough that your breath shudders, enough that your glow steadies into form. For the first time, you feel not only seen, but anchored. "Promise?"

Flins seems almost amused by your quiet disbelief. "I have no habit of lying."

You are strong enough now to follow him further, into waking hours, into the world of the living. And when he turns his hand, guiding your fingers with care as if ushering you across a threshold, you know this is the moment everything changes.

────────── ♱ As nights bleed into mornings, you find yourself not confined to the veil, not bound only to the indigo sky. Flins's invitation has drawn you into his rhythm. You haunt him now as the tide haunts the shore: persistent, inevitable, and—though you hardly believe it—welcome.

In the waking world, your presence is constant, if untouchable. When he sits at the small desk in his quarters, reading over reports or filling the pages of the Lightkeeper's library with tales of his own, you are there to lean over his shoulder, with curious eyes following the lines his writing. His hands are steady, despite the ticklish sensation of your proximity against the nape of his neck.

"Do you watch in hope of catching me in error?" The words are low, even, but you catch the ghost of amusement beneath them. "Perhaps." You breathe against his ear, playful, though your breath cannot warm, as you giggle.

"You would be waiting an eternity, dear." Flins stills his hand then for a moment while the faintest crease forms between his brows now that his eyes find yours.

"Then it is fortunate eternity is what I have," you whisper in kind. For a heartbeat, his lips tilt into a faint smile, as fondness seems to soften his gaze. "Eternity is what we shall have," he says softly.

At dawn, when Flins walks the rows of graves, you drift a step behind, your gown whispering over grass that never bends. His boots strike damp earth with unerring rhythm, and you fall into it, grateful for the sound. Sometimes he talks without looking back, offering thoughts as if speaking to the mist.

"That stone will need resetting before winter. The ground keeps swallowing it," or: "Strange how the fog lingers longer here than anywhere else."

"You think the dead prefer this place to stay hidden," you remark once, your voice light. His head inclines, and the faintest nod follows as he considers the places you like to haunt him most. "If so, they have an accomplice in the weather. I cannot dissuade fog any more than I can dissuade you."

The playfulness grows. You close doors he leaves ajar, slide volumes from their shelves and return them out of order, place his gloves somewhere new, only to watch him find them with the same faint crease of his mouth—never a smile, but never irritation either.

Once, when you hover near those gloves, testing whether you should place them on his desk or his chair, his breath hitches low in his chest. The sound is almost laughter, though Flins fights his bravest not to show you how fond he has grown of your presence. "You stand there as if weighing a crime," he murmurs. "You vowed to unsettle me; you will have to do better than moving my gloves."

The words are mild, but their emphasis is a shade warmer than before. His eyes flick toward you briefly, catching your form in the corner of his vision before sliding back to his work, almost like he wants to let you decide how bold you wish to be.

Your response follows swiftly, and you let playfulness slip into your voice as well. "Maybe I'm merely considering where to leave a mark. The desk? The chair? Perhaps your heart?"

He exhales through his nose, and for a moment it sounds dangerously like laughter. "Careful," he says, quietly. "Some marks cannot be removed."

Your answer comes quicker than you intend. "That might be the point, Lightkeeper."

That draws his gaze fully. Flins studies you for a moment that stretches too long to be casual. "You already follow me into sleep," he says then. "You move through my dreams as if they're halls you built yourself. And still you stand in my daytime as well, owning every thought of my mind. Though I had thought you wished for more."

The mischief drains from you like water from a cracked glass, leaving only a bare and trembling mess of a ghost. You hover closer and let your voice drop for a confession that might seal an impossible fate. "I do."

It calls for a gentle touch against your cheek, to cradle your face in warm hands. But instead, you are forced to look at another with a longing you held hidden for too many moons.

Flins's response is softer now, a mimic of your whispered tone but without losing its precision. "Then stop acting as if you're only a shadow. If you want to stand at my side, stand. I gave you the strength."

For a moment, you forget you are dead. You only know that he sees you, names you, and allows you a place in the cadence of his life, because to him, you belong there.

────────── ♱ The nights, more than anything, belong to you and Flins upon each return to your realm; here, at last, he can touch you. He has grown used to it—to threading his fingers through your hair when you sit yourself at his side, to resting the pad of his thumb against your cheek when he needs to call your attention. You lean into the small habit now without hesitation, allowing the cold of your skin to yield under the heat of his hand like frost under a cautious sun.

"I have failed to notice how soft to the touch your hair appears to be…" he murmurs once while letting the strands fall through his fingers, "…it's so much softer than I thought." You tilt your head slightly, eyes half-lidded with a growing wish for more. "You didn’t think death would preserve softness?"

The faintest hint of wryness accompanies his quiet confession. "No. I thought it would take everything." His response steals laughter from you; a sound that still feels strange and new in your own mouth, like the echo of a life long forgotten.

The sound startles Flins enough to lift his gaze fully to yours. "So, perhaps I have indeed kept something soft," you say then, after you found your composure. "Perhaps I kept it for you."

His expression shifts, subtle, however, thoughtful. "I would advise against saying such things lightly."

"And if I meant them?"

It is then that Flins looks away, yet not to distance himself, but rather because the weight of his own composure has momentarily turned too heavy. The flame in the lantern trembles once, its blue reflection tracing along the edges of his jaw.

"Then you would find me… uncertain how to answer." He lets out a slow breath, something caught between a sigh and a hum. "To live long enough to see beauty fade—and then find it again where it should not be."

You are still, as the air itself seems to be holding its breath. Then, with a motion almost hesitant, you reach up for your hand to brush against his face, and the chill gently cools his blush.

On this particular night, there is a new quality in Flins: A searching of your being that resembles a newfound acknowledgement. He leans a little nearer still, the lantern now rests forgotten with its light swallowed by your brighter glow.

"I have thought," Flins begins, "more often than I should, on what might have been. To have found you before death had its claim… to have cared for you, as you deserved."

Your hand lingers on his cheek, then you trace the faintest line along his jaw since Flins refuses to move away. And eventually the distance between you has become thinner than breath.

For so long you had believed yourself unseen, unworthy of such thought, and yet here he is—offering it freely. "That," you manage, your voice quieter than you intended, "is not something I thought I would ever hear."

His hand rises for his thumb to trace the arc of your cheekbone. The touch is gentle, almost to be considered fleeting, while those softened eyes of Flins remain fixed on yours as they carry words best left unspoken.

"It is something that should have been true," he answers swiftly to make that ache inside you swell sharp. You take his hand in both of yours, and draw a breath you cannot truly draw. "Then let me leave with you what I can."

His brow shifts, faintly furrowed as Flins considers whether you will go on. But instead, you look down at your joined hands, at the band upon your finger: a simple ring caught by the faint light of his lamp—older than broken promises, older than betrayal. An heirloom of your childhood, the one thing untainted by death or deceit.

"I have worn this longer than I remember," you confess, "it is the last piece of myself that was not stolen. And I… will not carry it where I go next." Slowly, you slip it from your finger. It gleams once in the shifting dark before you press it into his palm, closing his hand over it with your own.

For a time, his lips remain sealed, yet his gaze rests heavily on you, then on the closed fist that now holds your offering. When Flins finally speaks, he barely dares to raise his voice above a whisper—fearing he may break the moment. "You would entrust me with this?"

"Yes." You do not waver with your response. "Because I know you will keep it. Keep me in your memory."

He exhales once, low, through his nose, as if steadying himself through such a simple act. Then, his fingers curl fully around the ring, to turn into a shield around the filigree item. "You think I would let you slip away so easily?"

You meet his eyes, the ache in your chest twisting sharp like a knife. "I think… You would let me go if it meant I was finally free." His jaw tenses, the faintest flicker of conflict passing through his expression. But instead of arguing, he leans near again, closing what little distance remains. Flins's presence is as steady as always, an anchor in all the tumult rising inside you through the warmth of his hand.

And then the weight of his gaze lowers to your mouth, and yours to his. You lean forward, drawn by instinct older than death. His hands are already there to meet you; one closing over the back of your waist, the other rising to your face to cradle the gentle curve of your cheek.

His arm holds you firmly, closely against his chest, guiding you forward until you find enough courage to leave the past behind and let a new wave of emotions flutter in your chest.

You kiss him.

It is nothing like the memory of life. There is no breath you can share, no tangle of heartbeats, no warmth of lungs beneath ribs. It is presence meeting presence: his living heat against your impossible cold, two contradictions touching where neither should belong. It sears and soothes at once, burns without flame, freezes without frost.

Flins does not deepen the kiss, nor does he pull you closer—he simply holds you until you decide for it to be enough. When you draw back, everything has changed. The joy from a moment ago has been replaced by a pressure neither of you was prepared to carry.

You find your voice, though it breaks as it leaves you. "It's time."

Flins keeps his eyes on yours, his thumb still traces the line of your jaw as if to memorise it for a final time. When he speaks, it is plain but heavy, with a tinge of sadness he can't hide. "Then I am glad," he says, "I came back. Every time."

You smile a true smile, unshadowed by rage or grief, but the pull of your grave comes for you too soon, too inevitable. The difference, however, is that this time it does not feel like a burial. It feels like release.

As the impossible blue flowers bloom in the living world, you fade away from the cemetery, leaving behind something greater than grief and resentment.

In return, your ring lies warmed in Flins's palm, pressed into the leather of his glove. He does not let it go. Not when the sky darkens again, not when solitude becomes his constant companion, not even when the mists of the living world claim him back.

And though you may be gone, his hand remains closed—unwilling to release either band or memory.

"My dear ghost bride," his voice murmurs into the waiting dark, "let me once more lay you to rest, for you are worthy of my respect and love. Look upon my flame, and wander no longer. Return to your grave and forever rest in peace. Six feet under, may you slumber in your erstwhile homeland, and in sweet dreams return to the Ley Lines's embrace."

────────── ♱ The path crunches beneath his boots as Flins crosses to the far edge of the cemetery. His feet know the way before thought does, carrying him unerringly to the place where the crooked tree bends low, its branches etched with frost. The stone itself bears no new inscription, no offering, no trace of the living world's care. And yet, as they always are, the blue forget-me-nots bloom.

They should have withered weeks ago, blackened and broken by frost, buried beneath the snow. Yet they stand unbowed, petals wide, trembling with dew that clings like tears waiting to fall. Flins stands before the grave for a long time, his breath rising in steady mist that vanishes as quickly as it forms.

In his hand, the ring presses heavily through leather, carried with him every day since you gave it away. "You were right," he says at last. "I let you go." He extends a gloved hand and lays it against the granite.

And then he feels it: the brush of fingers across the back of his hand, cold and delicate, undeniably yours. He stills at once, every instinct of discipline holding him in place. He does not move. Does not dare. The same scent follows: that faint lingering aroma of crushed forget-me-nots.

"Flins…"

Your voice is no louder than the stirring of a breeze, but it embraces him with the fondness he has awoken inside you. He does not turn, does not break the fragile thread; instead he presses his palm harder to the stone, almost like he is urging your phantom touch to rest upon his own. Flins stands unflinching as the cold withdraws, the hum beneath his skin fades, and the last trace of you ebbs back into the Ley Lines.

What remains is the ring in his palm and the flowers blooming against the snow. He closes his hand over the band once more, carefully like always, as if he is handling a relic. His face remains controlled, but his gaze softens as it lingers on the impossible blue, alive against the white of winter.

"You were," he murmurs, the words carved into the stillness cause his eyes to sting, "a beautiful bride."

And then, with the same steady rhythm that always carries him, he turns from the grave. The snow swallows the sound of his steps, leaving only silence in his wake.

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