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The sky is overcast, dull grey stretching for as long as the eye can see. Waves crush against the lonesome ferry as it makes its way from the westernmost port of Snezhnaya to a small archipelago in the middle of the sea. Rerir observes them passively from his seat in economy. His thoughts are far away.
She said ‘no’.
He expected it, of course. Her initial reluctance didn't bode well, and the long wait only fueled the premonition.
“We may not be the right people for each other.”
Ironically, Rerir agrees. From a detached, logical standpoint he isn't the “right” person for anyone, and she would be better off with someone else. Vedrfolnir, as always, was right when he told him it would never work out. Doesn't mean the rejection didn't hurt.
But he’s been taking it well. He definitely didn't have a breakdown in the middle of his empty newly rented apartment. He didn't come into work in a wrinkled dirty uniform, he didn't file the paperwork incorrectly, he didn't botch the mission and his boss didn't scream in his face in front of the whole department.
Now he is simply taking a small vacation to relax and take his mind off of things. Just like his counselor suggested. Perhaps it will finally get them off his back.
The northern island in the middle of nowhere is, frankly, a complete shithole. The town is an ugly industrial blemish on the otherwise gorgeous landscape, a lawless place full of the shadiest people Rerir’s ever seen, which is a feat on its own. Every surface is covered in bird shit. Every face around belongs on a wanted poster. As soon as he disembarks, Rerir's extorted for a bribe by a port official on account of his legally obtained and properly documented gun. Unfortunately for the official, he’s not the man to take advantage of.
Rerir would’ve never considered coming here of all places, but she has always wanted to visit. The moon fragments that fell over the isles some five hundred years ago are both a tourist attraction and a subject for research.
He introduces himself as Richter at the inn, one of his aliases. “Richter” is a shy and scholarly man, and Rerir slips into this familiar persona easily. His fake ID gets him a room for the next several nights.
As his luck would have it, turns out the Moon Fragments Research Facility is currently closed to the public. ‘It’s Forefathers’ Eve’, the receptionist tells him. Rerir sighs inwardly. It seems his day will instead be filled with sulking at the local dingy bar or looking for trouble in the streets.
“If you're interested, may I suggest a tour of the lighthouse and the surrounding burial grounds instead?” The receptionist says. “The Lightkeeper's Guild offers discounts for personalized guided tours.”
“Richter” shrugs. A walk around some old cemetery sounds like a bore, but it marginally beats getting wasted.
“Sure, I’ll take it.”
*
They meet outside the town at dusk.
His guide introduces himself as Flins. Flins is polite and well-spoken in the way people that come from money often are. He's dressed in a long black coat with leather gloves and tall boots to match. Long hair falls in waves over his narrow shoulders. A soft smile plays on Flins' lips as he looks up to meet Rerir’s gaze. The guide is quite fetching. Rerir may not be interested, but he has eyes.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Richter,” Flins says. “It is my honor to represent our humble Guild on this tour. In the days past, the Lightkeepers were responsible for guiding the lost, maintaining the street lamps and the lighthouse. Allow me to guide you today in accordance with that ancient tradition.”
“Is this the reason for the late hour?
“Why, of course. Besides, what better time to observe a lighthouse than after dark?” He gestures to the unpaved road ahead. “Shall we?”
The man turns out to be a good storyteller. His voice is pleasant enough, and it's clear he takes joy in talking about this land and its history. Although, in Rerir's opinion, he focused way too much on the supernatural. Perhaps it's just a cultural difference; his homeland prefers a strictly scientific approach to matters, unlike the rest of Teyvat.
They reach the small island of their destination in about half an hour of leisurely walk.
“According to local legend, a fae lives on this island. It leads those with pure hearts to treasure.” Flins holds up his old-fashioned lantern, blue flames illuminating the path ahead of them. A gas lantern instead of a flashlight? The man must be truly devoted to setting the atmosphere. “As for the evildoers, it feeds on their fear... And their blood.”
“A blood-drinking fae? Some strange folktales you have around these parts.”
“The lifeblood’s power is not to be underestimated. Even a fae has to consume something to uphold its strength.”
Flins tilts his head, yellow eyes observing Rerir. A strand of hair clings to his neck right above the collar. Rerir’s gaze follows it up as it curls around Flins’ throat and disappears behind his ear.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
Rerir isn't interested. He’s simply unused to being single, still reeling from the breakup, and that's why he's getting ideas. His guide looks at him like he knows exactly what goes through his head, a smile on his lips. Rerir forces himself to turn away before he says something unwise.
They continue up the hill, towards the hunkering form of the old lighthouse in the distance. The light at the top is not on yet, and the structure looks like a crumbling mage tower out of some old tale.
The old cemetery spreads out around them, rows of graves among the tall grass. The place looks abandoned, untouched by the living, with no footprints left on the ground, no travelled paths beyond the one they’re on, and yet some graves have offerings and burnt-out candles left on them. Rerir wonders if the mysterious vampire fae is leaving them out and almost has a chuckle to himself.
The path opens up to a wide space atop the cliff, overgrown with gently swaying grass and frostlamp flowers. Flins continues forward, the lantern in hand, while Rerir stalls.
There, amidst the flowers, he sees a faint silhouette of a little girl, bathed in the moonlight.
She turns, her ruffled dress following the movement with a gentle swish. Recognition strikes through him like lightning and his steps falter. He has exceptional memory, for better or for worse. He remembers them all.
Rerir blinks. The silhouette is gone. No, he must be going crazy. He doesn't know any little girls. Ghosts aren't real.
“Is something the matter, Mr. Richter?”
He shakes his head. Flins hums.
The lighthouse grows closer, and soon they’re standing in its shadow, surrounded by crumbling headstones.
“It is said that on Forefathers' Eve the spirits of ancestors roam the land.” Flins' steady cadence grounds him a moment. Standing over a dilapidated grave, the guide traces his gloved fingers over the etched name. “However, they're not the only ones… Burdened, wronged souls come from beyond the veil to seek closure.”
A movement in the periphery catches Rerir's eye.
“Try as they may, few people can escape their past,” the guide continues with a smile.
There it is again, a swish of fabric, an echo of a child’s cry. The air suddenly grows colder, chill seeping under Rerir's coat. He nods, only half listening to what Flins is saying.
“Isn't that right, Rerir?”
…
In a heartbeat, he grabs his gun from its hidden holster and presses the barrel to the guide's forehead.
“How. Do you know. My name,” he snarls. Flins looks unperturbed, that eerie smile still on his lips. Rerir's fingers twitch. He's seen his targets try and play tough in the past, but their bluff usually ended the second they stared down the barrel. Flins simply presses against the weapon in a silent dare. It is uncanny, almost… frightening. Rerir thought this feeling was long lost to him.
“Who sent you? Do you work for Snezhnaya?”
The man laughs openly.
“This is the second funniest thing I’ve heard today. The first one was learning that the Rächer of Solnari himself would be visiting my humble abode. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
And then azure flames burst forth around them, and Rerir jerks back. The flames engulf the guide’s slender figure, consume it in an instant, until nothing but blue sparks are left in its wake. Darkness falls around him as the last of the sparks disappear.
He’s left alone on the island, gun still in hand, aimed at the spot where the creature calling itself Flins stood a moment ago. His heart thuds wildly.
What the absolute fuck was that?!
Superstition and magical thinking had no place in Rerir's line of work, and he's always maintained a sceptical and pragmatic outlook on life. But his guide just burst into flames before his very eyes. The creature knows his name. His title. There is no possible explanation for this that would fit in his worldview. Rerir grips his gun tighter.
The lighthouse looms above him, its crooked form blocking the faint moonlight.
The only way back is through the graveyard, now dark and quiet without the guide’s lantern.
And so he steps down the path, tense and wound tight. The cemetery is eerily quiet; there are no nocturnal birds, no branches swaying in the wind. He makes it halfway down the hill in this complete silence. It keeps him on edge; he can’t shake the feeling that that human-shaped thing still watches him. No matter. It can watch to its heart’s content.
The path winds through the shrubs, coils around the hillside. As Rerir makes another turn, he finds a translucent figure standing in his way. He sees her clearly now. No matter how many times he blinks, she’s still there. The girl looks at him. He looks at her, ice-cold shiver running down his spine. Rerir remembers her oh so well. She was the last one. Or the latest?
‘I just wanted to live,’ she says, her voice a mere echo.
A movement behind his back. Rerir whips around to find more silhouettes surrounding him. They speak, they whisper something he can’t make out, but he doesn’t need to; the meaning is clear without words.
There’s a sudden feeling of wetness under his sleeves. Rerir looks down. His hands are covered in blood. It's not an unusual sight. Back at home, he’s taken on the habit of washing them often, until his skin dried and flaked, and yet somehow there was always more blood in the crevices, under the fingernails. She’s asked him about the handwashing several times, a worried note in her voice, and Rerir lied, like he always did.
Now the blood drips from the tips of his fingers, leaves stains on his clothes. He knows it's not real, but the feel, the coppery smell of it makes him nauseous. The ghosts draw closer. There are more of them now; children, teenagers, adults. He recognizes each and every one of them. He can hear an echo of their voices, speaking in unison.
Don't look away. Dontlookaway
He takes a step back. Then another. Suddenly the ground gives in under his heel and he falls backwards. Cold earth meets his back as the air is punched out of him by the impact.
He lies in a fresh grave.
The ghosts stop at its edges, peering down at him, their emotionless faces neither angry nor gleeful. They don’t scream, don’t point fingers or hurl accusations. They simply watch, and there’s nowhere for him to hide.
A sound of quiet, measured footsteps in the distance breaks Rerir out of the moment. There’s only one entity they could belong to. The gun is still in his hand, a familiar reassuring weight. He kneels, his back to the wall, and waits as the footsteps draw near. His heart beats faster. Another moment of tense anticipation, and the soft blue glow of a lantern disperses the darkness around the grave. The ghosts move out of its way like a passing wave. The creature approaches, jumps down into the grave with feline grace.
“Enjoying yourself, Mr. Rerir?” Its voice is amused, almost playful.
Rerir takes aim and shoots. The bullet hits “Flins” square in the head, but it doesn't even flinch. Snarling, Rerir unloads the entire magazine into its body with precision. He can swear the shots go right through the flesh as if it were nothing but mist. His ears ring.
In the end, the creature stands over his kneeling form, untouched.
Rerir is paralyzed. He thinks of lunging forward, closing his fingers around the “guide’s” throat, but his body refuses to obey. This has never happened before; he thought they beat this reaction out of him in the very first year of training, and yet here he is, so scared he can't even move. Pain explodes in his wrist; the creature wrenches the gun out of his hold with ease. Rerir is pushed down, back to the ground, pressed into the dirt.
A weight settles over his hips as the creature makes itself comfortable.
‘As for the evildoers, it feeds on their fear... And their blood.’
“I’ve heard the souls speak of you. Of what you’ve done,” it says. “They say the Rächer of Solnari is a cold-blooded killer. A terrifying, omnipresent shadow. And yet what I see before me is a cowardly dog steeped in its shame.”
“I was just doing my job,” he says, and it sounds like the world's most pathetic excuse. Why even try to defend himself in front of this thing? “I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Is that what you’ve been telling yourself?”
That knowing gaze is inescapable. It's not often he feels so… exposed. His fake persona has already been stripped off him, and now the creature peers at the real Rerir behind the mask of the Rächer of Solnari.
Or perhaps it is the Rächer who wears Rerir's mask. The normal life he’s built is just a disguise to hide the real him: the hunter, the murderer. He isn't sure anymore. Maybe Tholindis saw right through it, and that is why she left.
“I could end your worthless life right this instant as these souls watch. It would be quite poetic, wouldn't you agree?” the creature says, and yet makes no move.
It's toying with him. Enjoying his fear. It wants to see him beg and prostrate himself. Rerir grits his teeth. The thrill of a hunt is addicting, he knows, even to a creature such as this. Though unlike this thing, he’s never toyed with his prey. Before becoming the hunter, he was just a low-ranking recruit, a nobody to be pushed around by peers and higher-ups alike, and before that an orphan with nothing to his name. He’s long since learned that survival didn't come easy.
With tremendous effort, Rerir takes control over the gripping fear and considers his options. There aren't many. The creature cannot be killed by regular means. He either dies with dignity or dances to its tune, humiliates himself for its amusement. Rerir has no illusions about what he's going to choose; he is a coward, and his first priority has always been saving his skin at all cost.
The creature bends over him, until their foreheads almost touch. Its dark hair falls over Rerir's cheek. For a moment he can't see anything beyond the cold, stagnant yellow of its eyes.
“Beg for your life, like they begged you.”
Oh, he remembers that. A boy asking him for mercy. A man begging him to at least spare his daughter. Two girls huddled in the corner of their bedroom, tears streaming down their faces as they plead with him.
He trembles. He gasps for air. “I… I want to live. Please.”
The ghosts move closer, their translucent forms crowding around the grave. Once again they watch. He closes his eyes, turns his face to the side.
“Oh no, you don't get to look away.” Cold fingers grab his chin, dig into his jaw, make him look up at the somber figures. “Face them. Let them see what a truly pathetic thing you are.”
“I'm… sorry…”
The devil above him sighs.
“No, you aren't. You're only sorry for yourself.” Isn't that the truth, Rerir thinks with bitterness. Predatory half-lidded eyes watch his face like he's something to be devoured. “Do better.”
Bright, all consuming light blazes above them. The old lighthouse comes to life with a hum and crackle of heating coils. Rerir shields his eyes with the back of his hand. The ghosts, caught in the blaze, disperse, leaving them alone among the graves. He feels a short-lived sense of relief at their departure.
“A shame,” the creature sighs. “I wanted them to see you beg for a while longer.”
Held down by the weight on his hips and the slender hand on his chin, he feels like a pinned insect. The creature’s body is warm and heavy despite its inhuman composition. Its handsome face, in contrast, exudes coldness to rival the freezing polar nights of Snezhnaya.
It's terrifying. It also weirdly does something for him, Rerir realizes with dread. Maybe he is pathetic enough to find the appeal in fear and humiliation.
The creature notices.
“Oh?”
Illuminated by the warm light, Flins shifts, slowly, deliberately, pressing himself against Rerir's half-hard length with a languid movement.
“I must admit, this is a first. It stands to reason that a wicked person like you would have such perverse urges.”
Rerir wants to laugh. The fucking thing is the one to speak, grinding against him like that. He might just be going insane, for real this time, because the things happening to his body and mind defy all reason. Maybe he's never been quite right in the head to begin with, and the cracks are simply starting to show.
Flins contemplates him in silence.
“Your eyes are quite beautiful. Star-shaped pupils are a rare sight on the surface.” A finger draws a line just below his lower eyelid. “Make me feel good, and I will consider letting you live. Disappoint me, and I shall keep them for my collection of rarities.”
Rerir does laugh at that. It comes out as a distorted cackle, equal parts unhinged and pitiful. He genuinely can't believe his ears.
“Would you rather I change my mind?”
“No,” he rasps, fighting against the hysteric laughter. “No, I’ll take the deal.”
“Very well.”
The weight on top of him lifts as Flins moves to pull his pants down. He isn't wearing any underwear - somehow not surprising - and his cock is hard and flushed pink, the only part of him to have some human color. It's truly unfair for this creature to be so attractive everywhere.
Yellow eyes scrutinize him as he unzips his jeans and pulls himself out. The fae draws closer, takes both of their cocks in hand with a pleased hum. Rerir's is longer, thicker, with a strong curve and prominent veins on the underside.
“Would you look at that,” Flins purrs. Despite the comparison being in Rerir's favor, his tone makes it feel like another humiliation. “Don't let it go to your head.”
Flins strokes their cocks in a tight grip, spreading precome over the lengths. His hand is almost too small to fit them both. Dark hair falls over his cheeks as he sighs in pleasure.
And then the fae simply… lift his hips, positions himself over Rerir's cock and takes him in. Wet, hot tightness envelopes Rerir inch by inch, until Flins is seated flush against his hips. It doesn't quite feel like a human body. The heat of him is near scalding, and the shape of his insides, the pressure of the muscle is off, as if the creature isn’t too concerned with replicating it.
But none of that matters, because he can see himself inside the fae, a small bulge just below the navel. A shocked gasp escapes his lips.
He's regarded with an ached eyebrow. “Well?”
Bracing his legs for leverage, Rerir pushes into him, earning himself a breathy little sound as Flins is filled even deeper. His hands reach out to hold onto the fae, pull him down, explore the planes of the covered torso, but Flins slaps them away with a sneer.
“It truly is a pity that this body is wasted on your pathetic self.”
Rerir pretends the degrading remark doesn't make him feel any sort of way and starts moving inside that scorching heat in harsh, forceful movements. His - partner? Foe? - effortlessly moves with him, back bowed in a sinuous arch.
“Just like that…” Flins moans sweetly, reaches down to press a palm against the bulge in his abdomen. The sight alone makes his vision swim.
The fae never tires, his movements never lose rhythm even as Rerir himself grows breathless trying to match the rise and fall of his hips. Suddenly, Flins tears at Rerir's coat, pulls his shirt to the side, until the lower neck is exposed.
‘Even a fae has to consume something to uphold its strength.’
Rerir expects the bite by the time it comes, long inhuman canines digging into the meat of his shoulder. He jolts, pushes back into Flins at the sensation. Lips latch onto the wound, sucking and licking. The act is strangely erotic. He pulses inside Flins as this horrifying, otherworldly creature feeds on him and bounces on his cock.
The fae pulls away. His chin is smeared with Rerir's blood.
“So sweet. Your fear is delectable.” He pants, rosy blush spreading over his pale face.
Rerir moans. He doesn't know what the fuck is wrong with him anymore. The bite throbs, bleeding down his shoulder, but he hardly pays attention. What matters is Flins, flushed and beautiful in his pleasure. Flins, meeting his thrusts. Flins, so tight and wet and dangerous, holding his life in an elegant leather-clad palm.
He offers his neck for another bite willingly, tilts his head back in submission to expose the line of his jugular. The fae goes down, his breath so hot it burns Rerir's skin. They're pressed chest to chest, Flins' cock trapped between their bodies. Rerir desperately wants to touch him.
Teeth nip at his throat, sweet and gentle first, and then the cruel bite comes. Incisors tear deep into Rerir's flesh, jaws dig into the tendons. It hurts terribly, and he’s certain he must be screaming. The little fae moans against his mangled neck, tightens around him like a vice. He comes inside that tight heat as blood spills into Flins’ mouth and over the fresh earth beneath them.
Dazed from pleasure and pain, Rerir gasps and cries out, tensing, struggling against the body on top of him. It is too much - the bite is too deep, deep enough to make him bleed out in minutes. The fae laughs at his struggle, a small, melodious sound, distant through a thundering pulse in his ears.
Lips press to his forehead in an almost gentle kiss in the last moments before his consciousness leaves him.
*
He wakes up in the hotel bed, covered in cold sweat. The sheets under him are crumpled and torn.
Stumbling, Rerir makes it to the bathroom, bends over the sink. The water runs ice-cold as he splashes it on his face. The terror in his veins is still fresh, and even with the breathing techniques from his training it takes him ten minutes to stop hyperventilating.
When Rerir finally comes to, he can barely recognize himself in the mirror. There are two red, angry bite marks on his neck and shoulder. Bruises in the shape of slender fingers all over his jaw. His eyes look sunken, haunted. And…
Rerir traces the cold surface of the mirror in disbelief, fingers trembling.
His hair has gone completely white overnight.