Chapter Text
But each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire. Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death.
JAMES 1:14-15
𐂂
Kyryll makes his way inside the dark forest with haste, the azure flame inside his lamp flickered along with its licks of crimson, the Wild Hunt was far enough from him somehow.
His weakened fire barely illuminates his path as he limps and groans at the pain that stung on his stomach, legs, and arm. Of how the Wild Hunt got to him, he has only the slightest idea.
He panted at pure exhaustion when every breath he tried to make inflicted a sharp pain in his lungs. Having no other choice, he leaned against a tree just to make himself stand and continue to run if he wanted to spare his life from the pits of hell.
Kyryll is from a bloodline of Faes wielding the Azure Flame, but tonight, he was nothing but a useless spark to Rerir’s grasp. He couldn’t understand the motive of that Sinner. What was Rerir trying to do and why did he cause Kyryll this pain as if it was an execution of a punishment?
The night howls its cold wind on the trees that towered over Kyryll, worsening the burning sensation all over his body—one that is not from his own flame, and each gust of wind all the more added to the feeling of dread.
The sky is lit up only by the passing seconds of lightning, he felt every hair on his body stand up from the thunder that roared all around the forest. If he does not find shelter soon, Rerir might be successful in his attempt at waning Kyryll’s flame.
An unpredictable foe, Rerir was, who not only performed necromancy at no one’s behest but his own, he somehow used some form of enchantment that is potent especially to those of Kyryll’s kin.
He did not care of which path he was treading, only that he gets out of here as soon as he possibly can before Rerir’s wights get a hold of him just as that Sinner did with Kyryll’s squad, some also ran away just like he did, and, inevitably so, some also took their last breath at this very night.
His vision was starting to dim as blood continuously poured out of him. He stumbled, still, he forced himself to stand again, barely hearing the animals that shrieked as he ran past them.
When he began to hear a high-pitched ringing in his ears, Kyryll’s knees grew weak, and each step he took felt like he was carrying mountains on his back, and not a moment later, his face met the cold, damp earth—his vision turned black.
For a fleeting moment, he is tranquil.
“Behold thy radiant Moon that illuminates Her holy light upon this barren land,
Oh, our gracious and heavenly Frostmoon Goddess, hear our prayers for plentiful blessing and bountiful harvest.”
Underneath the unchanging moon, the Frostmoon Scions worship their goddess at the tower.
They sang their songs and danced to entertain their audience that lived beyond the sky, but when the time came for prayer and all the others had their heads bowed down, Lauma was the only one gazing earnestly at the Moon.
She, herself, was unsure if it was a gaze of mere adoration or scrutiny to the gods that looked down on them—if there were even any gods behind the false moon at all.
Nightsky flickers with its lightning, and the false moon is slowly being shrouded by the darkened clouds. She could only think of how beautiful it was despite its facade, and how pitiful they are, waiting for a response from an absent god, because no matter how high their towers were, none of it will be enough to reach the heavens.
And even if they managed to knock on the heaven’s doors, no goddess shall answer them even in their despair. For the goddess they so revere has no more blessings left to give, and the only gods left above have no affection for them.
When their congregation comes to a close, Lauma walks alone on the way to her house, the raindrops begin to fall one by one, streaming down the indigo soil like tears she wouldn’t dare shed.
She was stopped on her tracks when a puffling perches on her hand, and if the others had been there, it could be seen as an aggressive attack because of its little wings flapping about and chirping so loudly in a panicked manner, but Lauma understood every word so clearly, “Master! Scary human… bloody…. Inside the cave! Come, quickly! I lead way to him!”
Not even a second later, a deer with a squirrel sitting on its back followed, bowing before her, the deer spoke first, “Lady Lauma. Forgive us for disturbing you, but we believe this matter is urgent. A gravely injured Lightkeeper found his way to the shores of this island… he seemed to be running away from foes.”
“It’s true!” The puffling said.
Lauma couldn’t help but frown at such terrible news. It was rare that a Lightkeeper finds his way to Hiisi Island, let alone an injured one. They quickly make haste and head towards the cave the animals spoke of. “Lead me to him.”
When Kyryll tries to open his eyes for the first time again, a brilliant light in the shape of a woman, whose lower body resembles that of a cervid’s, appears before him.
The radiant luminosity outlined the curves of her body like a goddess waiting to be worshipped, and Kyryll would, without any doubt. It would paint a funny picture, he thought, if someone divine found a godless man at the brink of his death.
Maybe if his kind believed in such a folly, he’d be in a much better state, but upon recognizing the woman before him, maybe he could die a happy man tonight.
Her antlers were incandescent as a gleaming crown of sacred silver, adorned with a small, dangling totem of the Frostmoon Scions. Its light engulfs the darkness that surrounded the cave which was filled with nothing but large rocks and coarse sand.
“...Flins?” A voice softer than velvet called out to him before he could even see her face.
He blinks again and sees Lauma, who is no longer in her centaur form, her glowing antlers were the reason he could finally see her face, when he did, he couldn’t help but smile.
Kyryll had no idea he’d gone as far as Hiisi Island just to escape from those damned wights. He winced as he struggled to talk, “You remembered my name…”
A few years back, when the Frostmoon Scions left their homeland in Snezhnaya, and were still adapting to the soils of Nod-Krai, they came unguarded and exposed to the dangers that lurked during nighttime, and when the Wild Hunt struck them at their most vulnerable, thankfully, some Lightkeepers have been keeping a close eye and patrolled the island while they anticipated the said attack, and Kyryll was one of them.
Days after, he finds himself pretending to have just woken up and answers to the one knocking on his door, finding a woman donning antlers and whose arms are holding a small basket full of their fresh harvest. “Please, accept our humble gratitude.” She’d said.
She explained that every member of the Lightkeepers had been given one, but Kyryll tried to refuse as he had no need for eating, it went on for twenty minutes until he finally accepted, amused by her unyielding kindness.
That woman was Lauma, the anointed Moonchanter of the Frostmoon Scions, the one who speaks for the gods, yet is divine herself.
The one who has occupied most of his thoughts ever since he saw her. Some of it because of her noble lineage, mostly because of her cautiousness around his presence.
Nothing much changed, he thought of her still beautiful, save for the worried look on her face that Kyryll rarely gets to see.
“Please, stay put. You’ll open up your wounds even more.” Lauma says urgently when Kyryll tries to sit up, her hands trying to rip off the clothes that hid the laceration on the entirety of Kyryll’s abdomen.
It was as if a beast ran its claw across his skin, his blood was seeping through the fabric of his wet clothes and dripping on the wet sand.
“I, I need to go.” He catches his breath as he feels a searing pain on his midriff, Lauma places her hands firmly on his chest.
“I might put the island in danger.” His voice trembles with fear.
“You could barely let out a word given the amount of injury you have, please, let me help you as you helped my people.”
Lauma gets a hold of a small ceremonial knife she brought, Kyryll had his eyes widen in shock, seemingly more eager to get up and just run away, but he couldn’t, “What in the world are you—”
Lauma winces as she drags it across her palm, ignoring Kyryll’s panic, and when silver blood is finally gushing out, she immediately holds his hand and wraps both of hers around it before muttering her prayer. Kyryll could only keep his mouth shut in astonishment.
Was this how she healed her people in their sickness?
Why was it at the cost of her own pain?
Despite his many questions, he remains silent. The Moonchanter was stubborn and resolute in her decisions, Kyryll does not have neither the energy nor time to refuse.
“Frostmoon Goddess above, let moonlight flow through my veins and rekindle this flame anew, let my blood insensate the flesh where his pain is due.” After her prayer, Kyryll felt numb all over his body; he could barely move if he tried.
The wounds were still there, tender and unsightly to look at, but all the blood from each wound had now coagulated as if all of it had been cauterized by a cold flame.
As he witnessed the miracle she had just performed, he wondered if she wielded a lot more power than what she showed because he knew of no other priestesses that can beckon a miracle in a single whisper of prayer. How could she do it even if she wasn’t as divine as the gods?
“Are you feeling any better?” Lauma asked, her hands never left Kyryll’s, “Because of the Frostmoon Goddess’ absence for a while, I’m not able to fully heal your injuries. The best I can do is numb them for a short period of time.” She apologetically says.
“I can’t thank you enough, Lady Lauma.” Kyryll said truthfully, albeit quite distracted by the warm hands wrapped around his own.
As a fae who lacked the sentiments often expressed by humans, no one has been able to touch his skin for this long, he was never used to it, he never understood how good it felt to have someone by his side when he’s at his most vulnerable, he doesn’t remember allowing anyone at all.
They say that Faes are born with hearts as cold as the snow that falls on Snezhnaya, yet right now, he feels it gradually thawing under the warmth of her being.
Maybe the rumors that Faes were made from the forbidden methods of the Hyperborean artisans may have been as true as the miracle he’d witnessed today, Lauma did bring life to anything she touched, even to a soul as lost and deteriorated as his.
“I need to take you to a safer place to tend to your wounds. It is best that you stay here for a while lest your condition worsens.” Lauma says, hoping it’d convince the Lightkeeper.
She lets go of his hand after making sure he no longer feels any pain, “You don’t have to worry about bringing the dangers you speak of here. I will make sure no one is aware of your presence in Hiisi Island.”
“I’d hate to inconvenience someone of utmost importance. You are the anointed Moonchanter, after all. I’d only be a burden to you.” Gone is the feeling of cold dread, but there is an inkling of shame evident in his voice.
Lauma shakes her head, “You are no inconvenience, and certainly not a burden, Flins. Just think of it as my gratitude.”
Exhausted and anesthetized, Kyryll no longer argued and forced himself to turn into a tiny ball of flame, seeking refuge on Lauma’s palm like it was his cradle.
She only felt soft warmth when he did arrive on her palm, and instead of burning heat, it only felt like the sunlight during spring against her skin.
To say she was shocked is no understatement. She knew of only one race who had shapeshifting capabilities that resided in Nod-Krai, “You… you’re a Fae?”
The azure flame flickered as an answer, like fire on a burning wick, his was weak and tame. But that was enough of an answer for her.
Could Faes also control the intensity of their heat? She might have to ask him later. “How fascinating.”
She gently puts the azure flame in the lamp that rested on where Kyryll once was. The rain was getting stronger and stronger, she couldn’t risk putting out what fire he had left.
In the middle of the night, Kyryll lays down on Lauma’s bed to have his wounds stitched up by her, and he could only look. Not at the disgusting tear on his temporary skin, but at her.
Lauma was a sight to behold after seeing Rerir's ghastly wights, upon looking at her more closely now, he only just noticed the mark in the shape of the crescent moon on her forehead, it was as beautiful as the one who bears it.
Though he didn’t expect her, the high priestess of the Frostmoon Scions, to have such a humble home, with no otherworldly possessions besides her necessities. She bears unusual contentment that he rarely saw in others.
Her home was as elegant as her, with only minimal ornaments laid out on the walls, a single flower pot sitting on the windowsill, and in one corner of the room was an area full of books.
Most importantly, it did not look like it was a languishing basement just like Kyryll’s, but it was similar to how it was also discreetly positioned in a slightly elevated hill just beside the shore.
The sound of crashing waves against the sand almost lull him to sleep when the voices of ghosts no longer accompany his thoughts.
To say that he did not feel uneasy laying down half-naked and depleted to someone like Lauma would be a lie. Kyryll suppressed his desire to bury himself inside a stone altar again.
If Lauma hadn’t known of Kyryll’s character from all the years she heard of him, she’d say that during this time, Kyryll was embarrassed to even be seen in his current state. His kind were not known to be weak, after all. And despite his many protests, he had no choice but to accept the help he’s given.
“You don’t mind… that I’m a Fae?” Kyryll asked, unable to bear this deafening silence between them any longer.
He swallows the tiny stabs of pain on his abdomen when all she does is give him a glance, then returns her focus on his wound, the ridges on it have been interrupted by the laceration.
Despite the indifference they once had with each other, Lauma thought Kyryll at the very least deserves his wounds healed completely. But she couldn’t do that anymore for a long time now, and since then, she began to learn the traditional ways of helping an injured person without relying on her grander miracles.
She stitches it up as slowly as she could because the pain would return to him sooner or later. Lauma tries to ignore the feeling of immense disappointment in herself and her ‘miracles’. Its potency has been gradually decreasing with every prayer and is no longer working than it used to before. Now, she could only heal minor cuts or it would take a toll on her when healing such grave injuries.
The feeling of her powers becoming enfeeble grew and grew along with every doubt and irreverent thoughts she had for the gods. She wondered how long it would take before her people could see through her and call her unworthy of being the Moonchanter.
“You’ve been nothing but kind to us… I don’t see why I should let you bleed to your death.” There was a ghost of a smile that danced on her lips. Lauma’s hands were so gentle it barely touched his skin, Kyryll wonders why he craved her warmth most profoundly. “Besides that, I have no interest in discrimination, for all souls share the same kind of light, only in different colors.”
“You’re as kind as ever.” He answered with a smile, "But isn’t it forbidden to bring a man inside your home if you are still unwed? I hope I didn’t make you break any rules.” Kyryll quipped with an expressionless face.
Lauma lets out a soft laughter, “Not if it’s for helping someone in need. Besides, those customs are already behind the times, so we no longer practice most of them.” Lauma finishes up the stitch with a small knot, afterwards, she places the sutures back into a pouch.
“Ah, that’s good to hear.” Kyryll says. Lauma turns to him, who averts his gaze almost immediately, before standing up to gather the bandages that she kept on her cabinet. He clears his throat and says, “I was worried you’d have to endure a series of reprimands from your Elders, but I’m glad that’s not the case.”
Right after bandaging the freshly stitched-up wounds all over Kyryll’s body, she asks, “If you don’t mind my asking, Flins, what… exactly happened to you? From what I already know, the Fae folk aren’t usually afflicted with grave injuries such as yours.”
It isn’t in his habit to lie, but he didn’t need to speak of the truth either. “The Wild Hunt led by Rerir… tonight was different from his usual attack. He conjured some kind of thaumaturgy that was lethal enough to hurt me.”
She was quiet for a short while, waiting for him to add more to his story, and when he didn't, she looked somewhere else and only pondered every possibility of the reason.
These days, the existence of Faes has become uncommon, and to speak about them has become taboo in both Nod-Krai and Snezhnaya ever since the Azure Flame disappeared when his kind were almost erased from existence by the Abyss, and when the Tsaritsa, who had just succeeded throne, did not do anything to stop it.
If the legends were true that his kind originated from the forbidden arts of the olden days all because of an Angel who fell in love with humanity, it may have been one of the reasons why a Sinner of Khaenri’ah sought after him, given his knack for necromancy and resurrection of the dead, perhaps to test the limits of life just as he did with death. A blasphemer, he is indeed.
But revealing this reason to her might do more harm than good, so he sticks to this short response, regardless if it wasn’t enough information for her. “You should rest, Lady Lauma.”
“Of course,” she nods, letting go of the bandage, she’ll have to read more books in relation to the Fae folk in the morning, “as should you, Flins.”
She proceeds to stand up from her seat, but just before she could, she felt the coldness of his hand on hers, lacking the warmth of when he turned into a flame earlier.
“I want to thank you… for everything you have done for me tonight. I will not forget it.” Kyryll was pale and had grown fatigued, yet the gaze that lingered on her was gentle and sincere and if Lauma hasn’t been imagining it, a small smile had appeared on his face.
Still, despite Lauma’s slight skepticism on his intentions, she gives his hand a light squeeze before letting go, “Good night, Flins.”
The truth is, this hollow shell of a body he has taken for granted for half a millennia has no need for sleeping nor eating, yet as soon as he closes his eyes that night, his memories awaken just right after his consciousness dwindles and sways along with the gentle breeze from the shore.
That night, he dreams.
It was one from such elegant banquets that the House of Chudomir once hosted in Snezhnograd, where the endless blizzard and snow has always been tempered by their strong liquor, and the fire-like rum is hot in their throats like flame burning on tinder.
The attendees wore their most extravagant of attires and jewelries from Snezhnaya, perhaps to flaunt their wealth or assert their power in the aristocracy, maybe even both. He never really cared much for those kinds of things anyway. Kyryll only watches his visitors dance in the middle of the hall in a familiar rhythm he hears from the distance, one he has long since forgotten.
Kyryll paused in realization, his brows immediately furrowed when he finally recognized the music, their laughter, how they danced and sang their hearts out, even the garments of their clothes, the joy of their faces, unaware of the tragedy that would soon befall them.
He wanted to run towards them, but he could not move his limbs despite his efforts in trying, and when he tries to shout, to warn them, to tell them they need to get as far away as they could, the only words that come out of his mouth are gibberish, indecipherable even to him.
All the music stopped, all their heads turned toward him, and looked at him like he was a madman. Then their laughter echoed inside the hall like he just told them the most wonderful joke.
Amidst his confusion, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and when he turned around to find out who, Kyryll just saw a mirror of himself, only that this person had wrinkles around his eyes and was an inch taller than him. Kyryll’s eyes immediately welled up in tears he never knew he could still shed.
“Father?”
“Are you alright, son? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His question kept echoing in his ears along with the laughter of the other nobles, it rang painfully louder and louder until it became a high-pitched sound that could make one person’s ears bleed.
When he blinks again, he feels his body fall on a pile of cold snow, the dance floor was now replaced by a snowland full of icy and silvery mists, a single divine pillar now rests on where the Snowland Faes once thrived.
The gods have forsaken them.
His lips trembled, crying out his father’s name, he frantically starts digging the pile of snow and failing miserably to find his mother’s body. He hears himself sob, his anger to the gods is dull and weak, it was a pale comparison to the pure anguish he felt.
But no one answered to his cries. Only the cruel blustering of a snowstorm could be heard and all that’s left are the icy mists that lie on the tundra, and it may as well be Kyryll’s own purgatory.
“Kyryll…” Someone calls out for his name, muffled by the sound of the blizzard, it echoes just like moments before. He searches desperately for the owner of the voice.
He ran and ran until his legs became numb from the cold and his abdomen was met with stabbing pain, until it gave an end to the replaying fragments of his memory that disguised itself as a dream.