Chapter Text
Flins ignores the way his body aches as he leaves Nasha Town, newly fixed lantern in tow. Between Sergeant Sousi’s death, Rerir and the kuuvhaki cannon, he had quite literally no time to rest at all.
He welcomes the familiar silence and eerie atmosphere of Final Night Cemetery, the emptiness and darkness of the small island a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Nasha Town, as well as the high and mighty attitude of the Harbinger he had seen. His lantern is heavy in his hands, as is his eyelids. They droop down, threatening to close while he fights sleep, as he enters the lighthouse and crashes onto the couch.
He takes a moment to collect himself — listening to the soft crackle of the flame in his lantern and picking up the slight wheeze in his breathing. He feels how his body is absolutely spent, burning with the heat of a furnace as his limbs hang limp and heavy. His head throbs with a migraine, and bolts of pain shoot up his left side as he tries to take deep breaths. His back creaks, still aching from Rerir throwing him against a rock wall, as he sits up and sheds his clothes until he is only in his undershirt; the heat in his body does not ease with the absence of his extra layers.
He carefully lifts his shirt to inspect his left side, wincing as some of it catches on still bleeding gashes. Beneath the long, shallow wounds is a colourful puddle of bruises and internal bleeding that contrasts the ghastly paleness of his normal skin, and he hisses as his hand brushes the oddly-coloured puddles. His ribs dig painfully into his lungs as he attempts to breathe deeply, and he’s sure that at least one of them is bruised with the amount of force that Rerir threw him with into the cliffside.
He gets up and llimps to find the small medical kit he stores in some corner of the house, brought to him by Illuga — the poor boy couldn’t help but be concerned for the other Lightkeeper; he once found Flins passed out unceremoniously in the lighthouse from blood loss. The medical kit was something Flins accepted out of Illuga’s constant insistence for it.
He takes the small box and plops back down onto the couch, breaths harsh and fast as his ribs ache and press into his lungs. He can only hope that his internal injuries heal as fast as they usually do, with his high recovery rate. With shaky hands, he takes the gauze and bandages out, methodically circling his torso and tucking the end of the strip into the existing rounds. His hands have a noticeable tremor in them when he finishes, and he lets them drop limply by his sides, trying to focus on his breathing. Hopefully the gashes will be healed by tomorrow, he thinks.
He hoists himself up, albeit shakily and stumbling as he does so, one hand on the wall for support as he makes the trek up to his bare and simple quarters. His ribs ache, his breaths come out short and fast as his legs shake under him, and once he reaches the edge of the bed he all but collapses onto it.
Theoretically, he only needs to retreat back into his lantern to rest, but as the adrenaline of the fight wears off and exhaustion starts to weigh down on him, he cannot muster the energy to revert back into a ghostly blue flame — and he would not want anyone to think that he, in the worse case scenario, was dead. After all, and especially for the people who knew and came seeking him, seeing nothing but an eerie lantern in his lighthouse far away from most of civilisation would make one wonder about the worse case scenario…
He can feel his eyelids drooping, sleep starting to claim him. All sensations start to fade into the background, and pain numbs into a nothingness…down into unfeeling depths just like the slumber he had before the Ratniki had woken him up with the smell of blood and death.
Flins lets himself rest.
Aether can’t help but be concerned for a certain Ratnik who disappeared immediately after such a big battle. Not even a visit to Hiisi Island, with its serene landscape and surroundings, made this thought rooted so deeply into his mind dissipate. Fortunately, Lauma seems to catch onto this thought — and his concern.
“Sir Flins is known to be solitary, preferring peace and quiet and avoiding contact with others unless necessary. For all we know, he could simply be resting after such a long and tedious fight against one such as Rerir.” Lauma smiles a little at the doubt that is written all over Aether’s face, and the concern all over Paimon’s. “Perhaps you could visit him to clear your doubts. I wish I could do so in your place, but my people and I need to be certain of the damages and help in whatever way we can.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do for now. I’ll update you if I can.” Aether agrees. He waves goodbye to Lauma as he leaves. As he makes his trek towards Lempo Isle and later Paha Isle, he notes the change in the scenery: ambient lavender grass and powder blue light changes into bright, chaotic machinery and chatter, before dying down into a stretch of silence only broken by waves coming ashore. The Fatui Experimental Design Bureau looms largely over the coast of Paha Isle that he treads on, and within a few more minutes of walking he spots the unmistakable light of Final Night Cemetery’s lighthouse, glowing just as brightly as ever.
The ghosts that usually linger around the small island are strangely absent as he walks up the clear dirt path, lined with candle-lit graves and Frostlamp Flowers, up to the lighthouse entrance. None of Flins’ contraptions are up and running, and the blonde notes how the place is virtually empty. Even the ghosts that floated around — albeit creepily — were a welcome sight whenever he visited the cemetery. Paimon floats warily beside him as he knocks on the door to the lighthouse. He raps his knuckles against the wood twice more in quick succession, a frown tugging at his lips when there is no answer after the third time.
“Maybe he’s out on patrol…?” Aether mutters to himself. But after such a long battle, surely even he would be tired…
He looks back at the door, and puts his hand flat against the wood. His worry skyrockets when he pushes and the door creaks open. He mutters an apology before stepping into the sparsely furnished interior, closing the door behind him. It’s dark inside, but warm as well. However, they didn’t do well to hide the dark spots splattered across the muted red material of the couch.
Paimon lets out a scared noise as she spots the blood on the couch, and Aether advances towards the stairs tucked away in the corner of the “living room”, lit by a single flickering lantern. The wooden steps creak eerily as he makes his way up, Paimon trailing behind. When he reaches the second floor, he notes a door, slightly ajar, with soft lamplight seeping through.
When he gently pushes the door open, he doesn't expect the sight of a sleeping and injured Flins.