Chapter Text
Nod-Krai is small.
Its main—and only—settlements are found on its southernmost isles, where the winds are just the slightest bit more bearable, skimming their warmth from those of the nearby Natlan.
It's a cold land, in any way you might take the term. Curious at best, Nod-Krai is no stranger to cruelty; be it its wilds, its people, or the Hunt that plagues them all, it is not a place for the faint of heart.
That is not to say, however, that Nod-Krai is completely devoid of virtue.
The perks of being a No Man's Land are exactly that. If Mondstadt represents Freedom, then Nod-Krai, perhaps, is Liminality. There's always something happening, something in motion, the winds constantly shifting with the air of something new.
It's harrowing.
It's beautiful.
And it's exactly why a certain Lightkeeper is proud to acknowledge it as "home."
* * *
Flins lives alone.
The thrill of his work aside, his is a simple life; a quiet one.
But it is by no means lonely.
Every so often, someone will visit: a passing adventurer, a merchant troupe in need of directions. Flins is happy to provide, sending them off with polite conversation and a decent amount of supplies.
(His generosity is, admittedly, not entirely selfless. His fellow Ratniki, Illuga in particular, have seemingly taken it upon themselves to ensure he wants for nothing.
Though his appreciation is great, he is but a man—a man who can only endure so much of the cardboard they called rations.)
Amongst Flins' more regular guests are those that he would consider friends. Friends that he looks forward to seeing, on the off-chance their paths collide.
Illuga, of course, is one of them. The Young Master is a good soul, his dedication burning like the lantern he now wields. His disposition is nothing shocking; it'd only make sense for Nikita's son to take after him.
If anything, it puts Flins at ease. He's sure that with time, Illuga will more than fill his father's shoes, and if not, he rests easy with the knowledge that he'll succeed in whatever vocation life draws him to.
Nikita himself holds a similar position. Though his duties as Starshyna keep him busy, he has the integrity to keep a fairly regular correspondence with Flins. It's always a pleasant surprise to find one of his letters, or better yet, see the man in person.
His fellow Ratniki are no slackers either. Over the years, Flins has gathered many memories with them, bitter and sweet in equal parts. He's learned their habits, played their games, and keeps a careful tally in his heart for every name he is graced with.
Outside of his social life, Flins enriches himself through a variety of hobbies. A stagnant mind, after all, is akin to a dull weapon, and he'd be damned if he caught himself lacking.
Though his grocery trips down to Nasha Town are a necessity, he's come to consider them a hobby in and of themselves. It's fun to wander around the shops, an endeavour that also allows him to hit another pastime of his: antiquing.
Old coins. Rare gemstones. Even the bones and teeth of, in some cases, ancient animals.
"Love" is a strong word. To say Flins loves his collection, however, would be an understatement. He wouldn't hesitate to admit to the joy he feels at viewing his collection, nor the rush whenever he finds something to add.
All this to say, Flins is happy with his life. His routine is enjoyable, and he is grateful for those who occasionally come to share it with him.
He doesn't think he's complacent. How can he be, when he has dedicated himself to the cause of a warrior?
The universe, however, has a mind of its own. In its eyes, perhaps these mundane days were not enough.
It probably thought to itself, "Flins, you need something new. Something life-changing! Something that pushes you, breaks you, and moulds you into something you never thought you could be…"
And so, on one stormy night, the universe granted him just that.
* * *
All children deserve a family.
But not every family deserves children.
In Nod-Krai, however, moral quandaries about who is and isn't deserving are for those with the privilege to consider them. You cannot, after all, expect a bird to fly—not when it has been locked in a cage.
Poverty is one such cage, and unfortunately, one that is all too common.
Orphans are found all throughout Teyvat. Nod-Krai's, however, are particularly visible. Be it by separation or abandonment, the particulars of the case nonetheless lead to the same fact.
One that Flins, of all people, finds himself with living, breathing proof of.
The girl is small. So small.
Her cries are weak, and her movements are frail, hampered by a blanket that is far too big. The tiniest tuft of pale pink hair adorns the top of her fragile head, smoothed over by a hand that is nearly half her size.
The contact seems to calm her. Her hiccups peter out, and her squirming becomes more manageable; though, as weak as it was, Flins had no issues cradling her to begin with.
She sniffles. Fists clenched, held tight to her chest, she presses herself closer to him, making a feeble attempt at seeking his warmth.
Flins says nothing.
He just turns, locks the door, and hurries to the fireplace, crouching before it as he, on one of the few occasions of his life, prays to whatever Archon might be listening that this soul be granted a chance.
Flins does not fear death. He holds no disdain for it, understanding it neither as a necessary evil, nor as a common good.
In his eyes, it simply is.
Even so, he finds himself hoping that it grants some mercy, that the odds of nature tilt in favour of this small life.
He isn't sure what emotion he feels as he smiles down at her.
This child.
This little light.
She is small, and beautiful, and far too fragile to be held by a man surrounded by souls. Or, perhaps, that is exactly why he is suited for this, for who has softer hands than those charged with the sanctity of the dead?
He will not bother with searching the island. Doesn't even think to try and find her family. Whoever left her here had made their message clear, and it is no business of his to parse out their motives.
Right now, the child is his priority.
She whines. Her hands open and close, slowly, stilted, reaching nowhere in particular. Flins watches as her face scrunches up, tiny little breaths building, building, and then—
"Hah-chuh!"
Another sniffle. Under lighter circumstances, he would have found her sneeze cute. As it stands, however, her symptoms are anything but; he can only hope her troubles are superficial.
Adjusting his grip, he slips his glove off, stuffing it into his pocket before lifting his hand. Once more, he feels at her head and body, careful not to press too hard.
Dry. Good. Checking the blanket, he's pleased to find it isn't even damp. At least whoever left her had the heart to shield her, especially in the torrent of tonight's storm.
A sigh flutters out of him; relaxing, but far from relieved.
He shuffles around, now sitting cross-legged as he scoots closer to the fireplace, just close enough to bring the baby more warmth. His hand comes to rest over her chest—her torso, really.
…have babies always been so small?
The little one gives a non-answer, mumbling a noise as she wriggles closer. Her arms rise, hovering around, but not quite hugging his hand. Her expression has softened, eyes shut, but no longer screwed tight, her breathing beginning to even out. Her heartbeat is strong, steady.
Flins breathes.
Stroking his thumb across a tiny chest, he mentally drafts his next steps.
He'll need supplies. Formula, to start, and lots of it. He'll have to get her new clothes, diapers, a crib and toys and her own room and—oh, Sevens, baby-proofing. He's going to have to do so, so much baby-proofing.
Home it may be, his lighthouse is far from homey. While that's fine by him, he's fairly sure that allowing a child to grow up here…
Well. It wouldn't exactly be enriching, that's for sure.
Then there's the bureaucracy. He'd be better able protect her if he gained custody. He could access more services, more easily leave her in—and Heavens forbid it comes to this—his will.
Overall, it'd grant them a world of convenience if he were recognized as her…
…her what?
His thoughts shudder to a stop.
What is he doing?
This isn't his kid. And she shouldn't be his kid. He can't raise her, can't care for her, and he can't believe he was even entertaining the thought, because if he messes up, it's her who'll be paying the price.
He'll leave her with Katya. Yes, that'll do. If she grows up at Speranza, she'll have friends, a family, a warm home with proper food, and a far smaller chance of contracting tetanus.
Stars, he really should get this place fixed up. He can't have a kid running around with all this metal, that's—
…not his problem.
Right.
Because he's going to bring her to Katya. And she'll have a good life. And he'll go back to his own, his days continuing as they always have.
Yes. That's right. He'll do that, right after this rain lets up. Until then, he'll wait.
And wait.
And wait.
A squeal draws his attention.
It's a small thing, loud in the silence.
Flins looks.
Lavender eyes meet his, blinking long and slow. Man and baby stare, wondering what the other will do next.
The baby moves first.
Tiny hands grasp clumsily at Flins' fingers, slipping every now and again until he chuckles, lifting them just enough for her to grab on.
She smiles.
A squeaky little laugh fills the air, her eyes crinkling shut with joy. Flins can feel her kicking, and he adjusts the blanket, wanting to keep her warm.
Keep her safe.
Keep…her…
He sighs. A nervous, fond, and downright defeated smile finds its way onto his face, morphing into a chuckle as he squeezes her cheek.
"You," he taps her nose, "are going to be a world of trouble."
The baby just grins. She wiggles about, making another happy noise as he nuzzles her, pressing a soft kiss to a small brow.
He hopes the rain ends soon.
And that Katya won't ask too many questions.
* * *
Illuga blinks.
Zvoni squints.
Lushne and Sukhovykh stop chatting, following their gazes to find Flins…
…carrying a baby.
Illuga rubs his eyes, narrowing them to find that Yep. That's real.
That baby is very, very real.
Said baby stares at them, sitting snug as a bug in a chest sling rug. A pale pink toque—probably the smallest Illuga's ever seen—keeps her head warm, while little mittens and a poof of a coat insulate the rest of her.
"Good morning," Flins greets. He nods, smiles, and strides into the office, ferrying his very precious cargo with his usual air of composure.
"I just have some documents to drop off before I begin my patrol. If I am not back by—" He checks the clock. "—16:00, please head over to Speranza. Katya will be looking after this little one, and on the off-chance that I am late, I would deeply appreciate it if one of you alerted her."
"Sure." Zvoni, reliable as ever, nods. "I'll be in the office today, anyway."
"Thank you, Miss Zvoni," Flins smiles.
The baby makes a noise, raising her head to look at him. Flins peers at her, meeting her gaze with a beam and a tickle to her chin. His(?) little one giggles, legs flailing before she once more faces forward, curiously regarding her surroundings.
Flins disappears into the Sergeant Major's office; one hand holding his reports, the other in the grasp of his tiny companion.
Illuga can't help but watch, his jaw hanging open at the tender way Flins handles her, his thumb caressing the back of her hand as she grips his finger.
"Huh," he manages.
"Huh," Zvoni echoes.
"Huh…" Sukhovykh rounds them out. He and Lushne look at each other. Then, they turn to Illuga and Zvoni.
Lushne speaks: "I didn't know Sir Flins had a daughter."
"He doesn't," Illuga corrects.
"Then…a niece?" Zvoni proposes.
"Nope."
"A baby sister," Lushne tries again.
"She's in Sumeru." His co-workers stare at him, expressions ranging from blank, to surprised, to downright shaken.
"She's studying at the Akademiya," he adds, as if that clarifies anything. "With the Rtawahist Darshan, I think? Mr. Flins bought an astrolabe for her, an antique model that she'd mentioned wanting. He mailed it over the weekend, when we went for a supply run together."
In light of this information, there is only one way by which they can respond: "Huh."
Silence falls. Zvoni signs a few more papers. Lushne turns to his own reports, pretending to find them interesting.
Eventually, Sukhovykh, who hadn't even bothered with feigning disinterest, speaks up, proposing yet another theory.
"He could just be babysitting." Though his tone is measured, the bounce of his leg gives him away.
Honestly? Illuga doesn't blame him.
No one—save for perhaps his father—knows much about Flins. The facts they are aware of can be counted on one hand, and even then, they're not entirely sure if they're even correct.
Fact One: He's old. Quite possibly immortal, given how long he's been with the Lightkeepers.
Fact Two: He probably isn't human. And if he was, he definitely isn't anymore.
Fact Three (the second newest of the bunch): He apparently has a younger sister. An accomplished one, too; getting into the Akademiya is no easy feat, especially under the Rtawahist Darshan.
And last, but certainly not least, the newest Fact Four: He has a baby.
Now, whether or not it's his baby is still up for debate.
(Illuga, personally, doesn't think so. Flins seems like the sort of guy who just…spawns. A similar logic likely applies to his offspring.
Or his ward.
Or whatever that baby is to him.)
"I doubt it," the young Lightkeeper debunks. His gaze remains fixed on the Sergeant Major's office. Though he can't hear much, Sergeant Sousi's laugh is loud enough to seep through the wood of the door—as are the babbles of their tiny guest.
"Children are usually scared of him, and when kids are scared, parents tend to follow suit. I'm fairly sure that the only person who'd entrust their kids to Mr. Flins is Miss Katya."
Mutters of agreement fill the room.
"…his baby is really cute," Lushne adds.
"Yeah." Zvoni nods.
"Do you think he'll bring them by again?"
"That'd be nice," Sukhovykh hums. "I'm sure the Sergeant'd be happy. He has kids of his own, right?"
"Right." The four of them share another nod. With nothing else to add, they settle into their work, pushing the gossip aside.
(At least, until lunch.)
When Flins exits the office, it is to this scene. As before, he offers his fellow Lightkeepers a smile, wishing them well for the coming workday.
"May we meet again soon," he tells them. Then, in a bit of whimsy, he takes his(?) baby's hand, gently guiding her in the motion of waving.
"Say goodbye too, little one," the Lightkeeper coos. The baby looks up at him. Then, she looks at them. With an emphatic squeal, she tosses her limbs, waving them about like a tiny pink starfish.
Flins chuckles. With a brief salute, he strides out, promising to treat his charge to a sugar sculpture when he returns from patrol.
Sergeant Major Sousi watches them leave, leaning against the doorway, his chest still jumping with the last of his laughter.
"Cute kid, huh?" he beams.
"Mmhm."
"Oh, very."
"She's so small…"
Pens scratch. Papers flip. A moment passes before Zvoni freezes mid-signature, lifting her head.
"He does know that she can't have solids yet," she says, slowly. "Right?"
They blink. All eyes turn to Sousi.
"How old is she, Sergeant?" Sukhovykh almost dreads the answer.
"Flins isn't sure," the older man begins. "But, according to the doctor, they estimate that she's around—"
His eyes widen.
"—three months…"
They freeze.
Then, without another word, Illuga vaults over his desk, Lushne and Zvoni following close behind.
"FLINS!" they hear the Young Master roar. "Do NOT feed your baby sugar—!"
* * *
Word travels fast.
Especially when that word takes the form of gossip.
Flins is no stranger. No matter how highly they viewed themselves, the nobles he once shared company with were more than happy to spin the rumour mill. In fact, they may have been worse, idle and self-righteous, silver spoons dangling from rambling mouths.
So, it comes as no surprise when, more than usual, Flins feels eyes on him, hears whispers of his name, and sees fingers pointing in his direction, tucked away when he turns to glance.
"Is that…?"
"So it's true!"
"I didn't know he was married?"
"Divorced, by the looks of it. Guess the kid takes after his ex?"
"Actually, I don't think he was attached at all—"
He can only laugh. It's incredible how imaginative people can be, though he does wish they'd put that energy toward more worthwhile causes.
After all, what's so interesting about a single father?
That said, Flins has yet to accept such a lofty title. Though this baby is, indeed, his (legal recognition pending), some part of him hesitates in allowing himself to be seen as hers—especially in such a personal manner.
Family…does not come easily to him. There are only two people he'd consider his kin; one, for those not in the know. Though he knows, deep down, that his heart is itching to bump that number up to three, something is still keeping him from embracing the change.
An old heart is a scarred one, and scarred heart is scared of more.
While he vows not to fail this child, words and intent can only go so far. After all, didn't the saying go that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions?
Still, Flins is a flexible man—something he and those around him consider one of his greatest strengths.
He raised himself.
He raised his sister.
While his past circumstances had been far more bountiful, more materially capable of sustaining growth, he's sure that, for as long as he needs to, he'll be able to adapt, and do right by this child, too.
He will.
He will not allow himself to fail; not here.
Not her.
But, he digresses.
Unwanted attention aside, being known does have its perks.
For example, thanks to the rare generosity of his fellow Nod-Kraians, Flins found himself saving quite a lot on baby supplies.
Within the first week of his little one's debut, he found the area around his mailbox full (something he's never experienced), overflowing with well-wishes, coupons, presents and crates—though no Mora.
So numerous were the gifts that he'd had to take two trips to bring them all inside, the baby accompanying him from her usual perch, her wide, lavender-grey eyes fixed curiously on her guardian's cargo.
In town, too, he found himself being handed freebies on his groceries—both for himself, and for his baby.
Even if he managed to talk his way out of such kindness (he felt especially guilty about taking extra produce, given Nod-Krai's poorness as a farmland), he still found himself graced with discounts; these, at least, remained reasonable.
Last, and perhaps most exhausting of all, was the small talk.
Flins finds it funny how efficient infants are at being conversation starters, especially with people he barely knows.
Now, this isn't to say he dislikes social interaction; quite the opposite. While he's happy to have a chat, and would never turn away someone who wished to speak with him, even he can get tired of telling the same story.
Even if that story is a very cute one.
"Oh, look at you!" Today's audience is an older woman, one he's never seen before. Apparently, she and her wife are here on vacation; adventurers, the both of them, hailing from Fontaine.
She coos at his little one, hand to her cheek as a soft, almost nostalgic smile brightens her face, her finger held in the baby's grasp.
"What a cutie! Are you hanging out with Papa today? Hm?"
The baby just smiles, an adorably vacant look that Flins has quickly grown fond of. The adventurer seems to share his sentiment, chuckling. After a few more coos, she lifts her gaze, turning her smile on him.
"How old is she?"
"Three and a half months, now," he shares. "Though she does appear to be a bit smaller, the doctor has assured me that this is normal. She will put on more weight now that she is in a home with steady nutritional access."
The woman's gaze dims, the implications of his statement shining clear. "That's good. I'm glad she managed to find you."
Her smile tightens. "I'm no stranger to what it's like for families here. We're facing a similar situation back home, especially in areas like Fleuve Cendre…"
She squeezes the baby's hand, stroking gently across its back. "Most of my own little ones lived there, before my wife and I took them in."
The adventurer looks at him. Her expression is warm, tender with understanding.
"Thank you for letting me say hello," she says. "It's been a long time since my kids were so…"
She casts another look at the child, sighing wistfully.
"…small."
She beams. "Look after each other, alright? Parenthood is tough, but I promise, it's well worth the reward."
Parenthood.
The term sends a chill down his spine, one that is as irrational as it is worrying.
"I'll take your word for it," Flins plasters on a smile. He and the baby wave goodbye; though, it's really just him wiggling her hand again. She doesn't seem to mind, gracing him with a gummy grin.
Gazing at her, Flins finds that he might believe the adventurer's words. Though, he does not understand why they have shaken him.
After all, wasn't she speaking the truth?
* * *
Two weeks become a month.
One month becomes two.
Flins' routine returns, more or less, to what it had been before—save, of course, for a few significant changes.
The gifts are the first to stop.
Well, not entirely.
The other Ratniki, Illuga especially, continue to bring him his usual supplies, now with the addition of things for the little one. Flins remains ever so grateful; though he's still well above the monetary water line, it never hurts to save.
Lauma, too, continues to give her support. The news of his charge had spread amongst the Scions when, during his third week with her, he took a record-breaking two (two!) helpings of their daily Feast—far more than he'd ever allowed himself.
Since then, he's received regular helpings of their Feast of the Moon, delivered right to his doorstep on days he isn't seen in town.
Most of them are brought over by Lauma's animal friends. Occasionally, however, Lauma herself will drop by, which usually results in the three of them sharing lunch.
Like today.
"She's growing well," the Moonchanter observes, joy evident in the crinkle of her eyes. In one arm is the baby; in the other, her bottle. The little one drinks voraciously, blinking up at her current holder with what seems to be the beginnings of recognition.
Lauma has, after all, been coming by fairly often. Illuga too, along with Zvoni, Lushne and Sukhovykh, Sergeant Major Sousi…
…things have been lively lately, haven't they?
"Indeed," Flins replies. "She's reaching a more regular weight for her age, as well as the typical milestones."
"Is that so?" Lauma beams, sparing him a glance. She adjusts her grip, leaning down to bump her forehead softly against the baby's. "And what are those milestones, hm? What has this little blessing been up to?"
Quite a lot. Though Flins is certainly biased, he believes his ward is more precocious than most, taking pride as he begins to share:
"As you know, she is feeding far more regularly." Lauma nods. Right on cue, the little one nudges her hand away, having finished the rest of her milk.
"Her sleep, too, is within expectation." Which, counting his lucky stars, isn't too much of an issue. Flins' constitution allows him to run on less sleep for far longer periods than a human would, with little side effect other than his perpetual eyebags and a bit of snippiness.
"She's far more reactive, and very playful. She has discovered, for example, the wonders of improved motor control, and is keen on showing off her skills. Why, just this morning, we had a riveting game of pass-the-bone."
Lauma pauses, hand halted over where she'd been patting the baby's back. She blinks at him.
"…bone?"
"A blunt one, of course," Flins assures her, as if that's the issue. "And large enough not to serve as a choking hazard. She seems to lean toward the more ancient ones in my collection, as well as those of more esoteric shape."
"That's…" Lauma tries for a smile. "Good?"
Seeing her concern, Flins adds, "They're all sterilized. Nor have I allowed her to chew on them."
A choice that has led to more than one tantrum. Though Flins is a strong man, even he had to fight not to cave, especially when those lavender eyes turned puppyish, small hands making grabby motions for her confiscated toy.
Lauma, wisely, just nods. The baby burps, mumbling a noise as she settles.
"Which reminds me," here, Flins practically glows, "She is beginning to develop object permanence."
Lauma brightens. "Oh?"
To demonstrate, he picks up a berry. Lauma sits the infant down on the table, supporting her as she follows the fruit, watching it move here, then there, before finally being obscured—though not completely—by Flin's fist.
She blinks, slowly. Then, a tiny hand reaches out, aiming at what he's holding. Flins smiles. He turns his hand, opening it to show her prize.
The infant squeals. Before she can take it, however, Flins snaps his fingers, drawing her attention away as he pops the fruit into his mouth, knowing that if she had gotten her hand on it, she'd be trying to shove it in hers instead.
(Illuga had made it very, very clear that she still can't have certain solids yet. A shame; Flins is still imagining how adorable she'd be, giggling and chewing on a sugar sculpture as they went about their day.)
When the baby looks back, she appears confused. She sees her guardian chewing, seems to notice that something has disappeared, and also hears that nice lady giggling…
She makes a noise; a baby's equivalent to a "Meh." If something had been there, it probably wasn't important.
Her attention is quick to flip. Her hands now reach for Flins, and as he looks in her eyes, he's sure that the light he sees is recognition. He doesn't even bother to fight his smile, especially when the little one mirrors it with one of her own.
Lauma is more than happy to hand her over, her gaze gentle with joy. She keeps quiet, allowing them their moment as she busies herself with cleaning up, stashing away their leftovers and washing their dishes.
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the baby reaching, giggling when Flins leans down, allowing small hands to grasp at his face.
"She knows you," the Scion beams. She pats her hands dry, rejoining them at the table.
"She does." Flins' voice is soft; perhaps the softest she's ever heard it. His eyes remain on his ward, arms cradling her preciously against his chest.
Lauma has never seen him like this. There's something…refreshing about it.
Flins is not lonely, but he is solitary, and the quiet of what is otherwise a detached life is something he values greatly.
So, when the news spread that he, of all people, had adopted a child—a baby, at that!—she was a very normal amount of surprised.
So normal.
Her worry levels were also socially acceptable, and no matter what Nefer says, she did not show up at her doorstep asking for intel, because who in their right mind leaves their baby at a lighthouse—?
When it became clear that Flins' stint with parenthood was looking permanent, Lauma, of course, reacted in a very measured, very adult way.
She absolutely did not coordinate with the Lightkeepers to send over those baby supplies.
And she definitely hasn't been sending her animals after him, making sure he and the baby were doing well, and that (as the Ratniki had insisted) he wasn't trying to feed her anything he wasn't supposed to.
(Which, after the scare of their wording had passed, really meant that he wasn't feeding her solids. For some reason, they were very strict about that, seemingly recalling a certain Incident…)
All this to say, fatherhood…looks good on Flins. She's glad to see that he's adapting well, and it's clear that he's committed to the journey he and his charge (as he still insists on calling her) will share.
He loves this little one. Though it'll be a warm day in Nod-Krai before he admits it, Lauma can already see it in the way he handles her, the warmth in his gaze as he holds her close.
It is with this view, to the sound of Flins and the baby laughing, that she puts her worries to rest…
…most of them, at least.
(She's still waiting on Nefer to get back to her about those "new parent" classes—complete with the basics of child development and, importantly, guidelines on a growing infant's diet.
If she slips a few of their flyers into Flins' mailbox, no one has to know.)
* * *
Renovations are going well.
The little one has a proper room, now, with smooth, wooden floors, gentle lighting, and just enough furniture to give it life.
Her crib sits on the wall directly across from the door, giving Flins an immediate view of her whenever he needs to check.
(She rarely uses it, still preferring to sleep with him; something that he's selfishly hesitant to give up.)
To the left and right, respectively, are a well-stocked changing table and a small dresser full of even smaller clothes, many of which had graciously been handed down by the Sergeant and Starshyna.
A giant, frog-shaped rug covers the centre of the room, a purchase that Flins is quite endeared by. There's something comforting about its smile: large, hopeful, and slightly absent, like it hasn't had a single thought in its entire life.
In the corner is a rocking chair, livened up by a set of cushions. One of them, a smiley purple flame, had been hand-made by Lauma. When asked about its inspiration, the Moonchanter had just smiled, saying she merely wanted to give the child something cute.
Flins had played along, but he knows his likeness when he sees it.
A small part of him hopes that said likeness is why the baby likes it so much.
While largely well-tempered, she's extremely territorial when it comes to certain things, and that plush is one of them.
Flins learned that the hard way when, thinking she'd been asleep, he'd tried to pry it from her hands, only to receive a screech and a subsequent fit, one that hadn't calmed until she actually dozed off. Even then, she'd taken the cushion with her, wrapping her small body around it like a tiny pink koala.
On the other side of the room, near the dresser, are the beginnings of a small toybox, fenced off by duct tape and boxes to ensure she can't reach it.
Though Flins never leaves her alone—especially not in the presence of construction—he can never be too careful, a lesson that has been drilled into his head since he enrolled in that parenting course.
"When in doubt," one of the instructors, an older father with a veritable army of children, told them. "Never leave the baby out."
(He has a sneaking suspicion Lauma had a hand in disseminating the sign-up form. Nefer, however, refused to confirm.)
The rest of his living quarters are essentially the same.
Floor repairs and safety checks aside, doing a full overhaul of his home isn't yet feasible. That'll have to be a task for future him, when the little one is older and hopefully autonomous enough to spend more time out of the house.
(For a moment, he wonders what that'll be like. Will she still enjoy their walks? Will she still let him carry her?
A small, strangely sentimental part of him is already mourning for when she's a "big girl," one who doesn't want him to embarrass her in front of her friends, who might start to prefer hanging out with them as opposed to her fa—
…guardian. Her guardian.)
Lighthouse troubles aside, things, as they say, are coming up roses.
The baby is healthy, and his sleep schedule is mostly intact. Even his social life is staying strong, ironically—at least, by new parent standards—facilitated by the baby herself.
The Final Night Cemetery is always dark, and while Flins doesn't know much about human childcare, he understands that a regular dose of sunlight is needed to ensure his little one develops well.
As such, he'd figured out Nod-Krai's daylight hours, adjusting his routine and taking full advantage of his Waypoint access to bring the baby into town.
What was good for baby was apparently good for daddy—at least, that's what Illuga said.
(Flins had gently asked him to not call him that again.
Illuga, mortified by some hindsight-caught connotation, agreed.
To this day, Flins still doesn't know why, exactly, the young Ratnik had turned so red.
It wasn't that he minded the word "daddy", but the idea of being acknowledged as the girl's father was still something he found himself freezing at.
…did "daddy" mean something else?)
Flins found that if he timed their outings just right, he could still enjoy a sliver of the peace he'd long grown accustomed to, especially now that the novelty of his child-rearing had worn off.
Such is the shape his days have come to take.
* * *
There's one more thing. One very, very important thing.
Something that Flins should have done right away.
He hadn't meant to put it off. In fact, it'd been first on his list.
Early into the child's adoption (because, no matter how much he refuses to name it, that's exactly what this is), he'd made a to-do list. At the very top, in big red letters, were the words:
Register for legal custody.
Flins, with the help of a visiting Lightkeeper who'd once worked in law, had successfully obtained the forms needed for such recognition. He and his co-worker had worked through them together, and they'd nearly filled them all out…
…until they reached the name section.
The Ratnik, a kindly young person who, from a human standpoint, looked to be about his age, had just laughed, patting his back upon seeing him freeze.
"Take your time," they'd told him. "Naming a kid is a big step."
Indeed, it was—doubly so, given Flins' background.
Names are important to the fae. They signify who you are connected to, the things that make you you. His family, for example, had been particularly adamant about recognizing their lineage, and had given him and his sister surnames that recognized this.
(They were one of the few things of their parents that they'd allowed themselves to keep.)
Flins knew this. He understood this.
Far too much, perhaps.
The hours passed.
Then a day.
The Ratnik, understanding his indecision, had assured him that he didn't need them anymore; once he thought of a name, he could finish the forms. After that, all he'd have to do was submit them, and bureaucracy would take care of the rest.
A week went by, and they left, returning to Piramida.
Another week, and the name section stayed blank, scrutinized time and time again by sleepless eyes.
Before he knew it, it'd been a month.
Then two.
And now, three.
Three months.
Three whole months.
And he still hadn't named her.
In light of this, everyone had made do, granting his little one a healthy array of nicknames—some of which she's started responding to.
Lauma, for example, calls her his "little blessing" or "moonbeam." Nefer, on the few occasions they've met, refers to her as "the rascal" or, when speaking directly to the baby, "you."
("Hello, you," she'd greet her. Though she tries not to, her expression always falls to a smile, gentler than Flins had believed her capable of.)
Perhaps most damning of all were the names his co-workers had given.
Lushne and Zvoni, for example, refer to her as "Mini Flins." Illuga and Nikita have dubbed her "Flins Junior," a name that has quickly caught on with the rest of their group.
Though Flins had laughed and allowed the nicknames to continue, every mention of his name, every instance that they used it to connect her back to him...
…it scared him.
It's funny, isn't it? That the thing that scares him most isn't battle, isn't death, but giving a name to a tiny, little baby. One he'd just happened to meet, who could have been taken in by anyone else.
He wonders, not for the first time, if he made the right call. If he really could do right by her, or if playing at family was a skill he'd already lost.
He knows he's being selfish. Cowardly, even. This ship has long since set sail, yet he's still on the dock, staring at where it'd been anchored.
Flins wasn't ready to name her.
To acknowledge just how attached he'd become.
He wasn't ready to see how much he's changed for her, how much he'll keep changing, because he knows he will. After all, no one reshapes their home for someone who's just visiting.
Most of all, he wasn't ready to tie her down. To truly, wholly connect her to his lineage, his name.
While he trusts Layla (and is sure she'd be ecstatic at meeting her niece), he distrusts the Court, and he knows that any sign of life from him is sure to stir up some waves.
Especially with the Tsaritsa watching.
It wouldn't be fair. This child had, after all, done nothing wrong; she'd just happened to exist, carrying the name of a certain deserter.
Flins—no, Kyryll could only hope that he truly was as dispensable as the higher-ups had implied, that no one would bat an eye if someone else suddenly took up the surname of Chudomirovich Flins…
He sighs.
It is to these thoughts that he trudges home, spear in hand and a weight in his heart. Illuga and Nikita were babysitting today, and it wouldn't do well to be late.
* * *
"Pah!"
Flins halts.
There he stands, frozen in the doorway as he processes the scene before him.
A warm, freshly made dinner of smoked fish, vegetables, bread, and cheese winks at him from the kitchen table. Illuga has just finished setting the plates, having almost dropped one at the shock of the baby's babble.
It's not a word. Not yet. But Flins isn't blind—he knows what she's trying to say.
She continues to reach for him, her smile wide, gracing him with a view of her little gums.
Before he knows it, he's kneeling, leaning into her grasp and allowing her to tug at his nose, their foreheads bumping together in their usual greeting.
"Hello, my dear," he smiles, soft.
"Hello, Papa Flins!" Nikita, who'd been holding her, voices her thoughts, his voice squeaky as he maneuvers her hand, guiding it gently from the bridge of Flins' nose.
(The way the fae flinches is not missed.)
He uses it to pat his cheek, chuckling to himself when the little one catches on, clumsily attempting to continue the motion solo. Flins allows her a few more pats. Then, he kisses her head, pushing off from his knee to stand.
"Your patrol went well?" the Starshyna asks.
"Relatively," is Flins' quick reply. He busies himself with removing his coat and boots, returning to the doorway in order to hang them. He flips the latches on the door, sealing it shut for the night ahead.
His curtness does not go unnoticed. There are eyes on his back, a concerned glance exchanged between father and son. He can already sense their planning, determining how they might broach their friend's uncharacteristic brevity.
Illuga strikes first.
"I'm going to feed her," he declares.
"Are you sure you can handle that?" Nikita questions; both to tease, and for show. Illuga's gasp isn't entirely fake, and out of the corner of his eye, Flins can see him pouting, carefully taking his ward and resting his cheek against her head.
"I can!" the young Lightkeeper frowns. He turns to the baby. "You believe me, right? Uncle Illuga can feed you just fine, hm?"
The baby blinks. Then, she gives a blank smile which, in Illuga's eyes, is equivalent to a beaming approval.
He turns to his father, proud. "You see? She agrees. Come, little one. I'll even tell you a story while you eat—"
With dinner and a show secured, the baby pays neither Flins nor Nikita any mind.
She doesn't see when Flins' expression finally falters, his figure retreating into the shadows of the hallway, nor does she notice when Nikita gets up, following after him on light feet.
"Flins." Ah. There it is. The man calling for him is not Nikita; it is the Starshyna. Flins stops, his honour disallowing any further escape.
The breath he draws is deep. Though a faerie does not need to breathe, he finds himself doing so, if only to provide a distraction.
Nikita stops, standing an arm or so away.
For a moment, neither of them says anything. They hear Illuga chattering, delving into the depths of a well-loved children's tale, one that Flins has already told this little one several times.
The baby doesn't mind. Every now and again, they hear her laugh, a sound that digs into Flins' heart, that causes him to bite his lip, lest he break right then and there.
"I haven't named her yet." He speaks first, grasping for something he can control. "Nor have I submitted the forms. She is not mine."
"…in the eyes of the law," Nikita specifies, the pause heavy between them.
Flins doesn't reply.
He expects Nikita to scold him. Or to laugh, and make a joke about his indecision. Either would be fine, an adequate diversion from the question in his eyes:
Why?
Nikita does not sigh. Doesn't huff, or shake his head. Instead, he reaches out, resting his hand on Flins' shoulder. He gives a gentle squeeze; any lighter, and Flins might have missed it.
"You know," his friend begins. "I had trouble, too, back when I had to name Illuga."
Though Flins knows the man is not making light of his situation, he can't help but wince, his eye twitching.
Nikita, sensing this, holds up a hand. "I don't mean to compare. Nor do I say this to debase the deeper issue."
He pulls back, crossing his arms. With one, he gestures, continuing, "It's a big change. While I, personally, did not face any issue in calling him my own, I understand why you hesitate to do so."
His gaze is warm, laden with the wisdom of a fellow parent.
"You want to protect her," Nikita says. "You want to care for her. That's why you took her in, is it not?"
Flins nods. His throat feels tight, and there's a sting in his eyes; a sensation he thought he had forgotten.
"You're afraid of how the world will treat her, especially if it finds out who, exactly, she carries the name of. The legacy of that title, the lineage to whom it belongs."
Again, he nods. After all, what else can he say?
"It's a terrifying thing, to give something a name." Nikita's voice is soft, the words he repeats familiar.
"A name is everything," Flins echoes alongside him. "It is who you are, who you are surrounded by. Every name is a life, and every life is a story."
A sigh shudders out of him, reedy with the threat of tears.
"I do not want hers to be judged by my own."
Silence falls. The seconds tick by, tense. Then, Nikita asks, "Do you regret it?"
Flins lifts his head. He blinks rapidly, frowning.
Before he can answer, the man adds, "You still have time."
…to what?
"She's young. Young enough that, if you choose to do so, she won't remember you leaving—"
What?
"—you can give her up," Nikita finishes. He has the audacity to shrug, a gesture that only serves to fuel the heat in Flins' chest.
What?!
"The damage will be minimal," the Starshyna tacks on, unsettlingly clinical. "Assuming that there is any. Which, as I said, is unlikely."
"You are quantifying a hurt that has no measure," Flins hisses. His nails dig into his palms, nearly piercing the fabric covering them.
"And you're upset over it." Nikita raises a brow, grinning. "Why? As you said, she's not yours."
So why do you care?
Because…because…
Flins breathes. His vision blurs. He lowers his head, trying to salvage the little bit of dignity he has left.
He cares because he made his choice.
Because that night, she'd smiled at him.
She'd grabbed his hand, and he'd swaddled her tighter, keeping out the cold of the storm outside. He'd kissed her head, already thinking of all the changes he'd have to make in order to look after her.
He cares because she's growing, so fast. Because she recognizes him now. Because when she sees him, she lights up, reaching and laughing and wanting to play.
He cares because his first thought had been to care. That he'd need supplies, to make sure his home was safe for her, to change it so that it could be a home for her too.
He cares because he does.
Because love is a means to its own end.
Because he loves this little one, his little one, and he never, ever wants to make the mistake of letting her think otherwise.
Whatever comes their way, they will face it. Whoever dares to harm her, he will return the cost, ten, twelve, twenty-fold.
She will be his.
As he will be hers.
And he will name it so, as he should have done all those months ago.
Flins doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. Nikita squeezes his shoulder again, patting his back in a hug done halfway.
"You'll fall," the older man warns. His tone is firm, his voice gentle. "There will be times where you trip, where you are the cause of her pain. Good intentions, after all, do not always translate when put into action."
Flins sniffles, quiet. He nods.
"You won't be perfect," Nikita continues. "And you won't need to be. For every time you fall, every time you strive to right your mistakes, you will be doing everything she needs."
They hear her laughing. Her and Illuga, giggling to themselves about something silly.
"You won't fail, Flins." Nikita's gaze is bright, strong with assurance.
"Not unless you allow it."
* * *
"Just to verify," the clerk says. She flips through the forms, once, twice, her glasses dangling from the tip of her nose.
"All the information here is, to the best of your knowledge, true and correct?"
"Indeed," Flins smiles.
The clerk nods, mostly to herself, going over his submission one more time. After a moment, she grins, satisfied with her check.
She looks at him, her posture relaxed. Her smile takes a casual turn, finally signaling to Flins that the storm has passed.
"So," she starts. Her gaze flickers downward, meeting the eye of her tiny guest. "Your name is Aino, huh? Aino—"
She glances at her forms. "—Kyryllovna Flins. Is that right?"
Aino, in lieu of a verbal response, gives her a smile, one that has the clerk brightening. Briefly, her eyes flick to Flins, who nods in confirmation.
"And her birthday is September 21," she checks. "The day you took her in."
"That is correct." Flins nods again.
"Aino, Aino…" the clerk repeats. She chuckles. "Ahh, you must be a handful, if your father is hoping you'll be his 'only one.'"
Though somewhat uncalled for, Flins can't deny the veracity of her comment. Nearing half a year in age, Aino's personality is stronger than ever—too strong, sometimes.
He has a sneaking suspicion that if her first word isn't "papa" (and he's really hoping it is), it'll be "no."
"She's the only one I need," the Lightkeeper jokes. Feeling sappy, he kisses the top of Aino's head, nuzzling her with his cheek.
Aino, ever in her father's corner, responds flawlessly to her cue, squealing a laugh as she wriggles with joy.
The clerk allows them their moment, her gaze soft. When Flins looks back, she offers her hand, standing behind her desk. He takes it, and they shake, the clerk reporting:
"Everything appears to be in order. I'll have these mailed by the end of the day, and will contact you as soon as possible regarding next steps."
"Thank you," Flins smiles. "I'll be in touch."
"Of course, of course," she beams. "Congratulations again, sir. I wish you all the best in your life as a family—oh!"
She snaps. "That reminds me! Now, I know you've already enrolled in one of our childcare courses. However, there are several other services you can also access, including other courses recommended to facilitate the transition to family life—"
Flins leaves about twenty minutes later, with several pamphlets and a sign-up form for yet another course he may or may not take.
Though he has lost a fair chunk of time to complete today's errands (why did he sign up for those early evening patrols?), he can't find it in himself to be annoyed. Not when Aino is looking at him, smiling like she knows they'll be okay.
He huffs, laughing quietly as he squishes her cheeks, earning himself a giggle.
"I knew it," he sighs. "You truly will be a world of trouble, hm?"
But you'll be worth it.
Aino, as if hearing his thoughts, graces him with a grin, her eyes shutting with joy.
"Cheeky little thing." With a tap of her nose, Flins steps outside, chuckling as she tries to grab him. He allows her to win, the thumb of his right hand grasped within the entirety of her own.
He wonders, briefly, what they'll have for dinner. The doctor said Aino can start trying solids, and Katya gave him a list of baby foods to start her off on. After that, there's cleaning to be done, as well as a few reports he needs to finish before bed.
Speaking of reports…
"Aino," he starts.
His daughter looks up, blinking at him.
"I believe your aunt has a break coming up."
He recalls the contents of Layla's last letter. She'd written excitedly (and tearfully; some of it had gotten on the paper) that winter break was soon, and by the time he'd be reading her letter, there'd be a little over a week before she was free.
"How would you like," Flins smiles. "To finally meet her?"
* * *
Somewhere in the Akademiya's library, a certain student sneezes.
Layla sniffles, dabbing her nose politely with an old, silk handkerchief. Embroidered clumsily on its corner are the initials "L. C. F."; one of her brother's earliest attempts at a hand-made gift.
"It must be the weather," she mumbles. Again, she sneezes. With a hand to her head, she mutters an apology, hiding herself behind one of her textbooks.
The weather.
Yes.
(Oh, how she hopes that it's just the weather.)