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He doesn’t have a name.
He’s just a mere spirit, a breath of lukewarm pyro, his existence completely and utterly meaningless. He spends his days hopping from branch to branch to keep himself alive, feeding off punk wood and yellowish leaves during wintertime. His flame is weak and gives off barely any warmth, and he trembles with fright when a whoosh of icy wind rushes through the little forest, carrying away the pile of leaves he had declared as his momentary hiding place for the night. Such a pathetic little thing he truly is, something no one has hight expectations for, something no one is waiting to get home to.
It wasn’t always like this. A long, long time ago, when the air was warmer and only a few humans roamed the earth, he was powerful and majestic and utterly beautiful. He was a feather on an old phoenix’s body, melted lava and poisonous smoke, choking and burning, fiery wood and searing charcoal. He had glazed the high skies and flew through thick puffs of clouds; he was so free it made his own chest ache sometimes.
Now look at him now, hiding in tree trunks during snowstorms, living on stale leaves and wet wood, avoiding big patches of snow and mud.
But he doesn’t mind, not one bit. If anything, he’s rather content with his hollow life. He doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to feel, doesn’t have to live. He doesn’t even have to love.
He’s nothing but a gasp of warmth humans use to light their candles with when the sun dips low on the horizon. Not even the fire that dances on the wick, just the tiny sparkle that twirls on the match before dying out just as quicky as it had appeared. Nothing but a second of yellow and orange, the dying smell of burning wood and a fading memory of childhood.
There’s a human on the ground, just a few steps away from him. A child, to be exact. He had long since stopped shivering in the snow, and now lies lifeless, unmoving, cold. Death is certainly on her way to collect the lost soul, and the spirit is content waiting for her grand arrival, munching on an old tree root. It wouldn’t be the first time the two cross paths after all, he had grown rather fond of her icy presence.
But somehow, the wood tastes rotten on his tongue. It’s old and stale and not all that desirable, but he wasn’t known for being picky. His gaze keeps lingering back to the boy, to the thin white shirt that’s way too light for such harsh weather, to his messy dark hair, to his small form that keeps hugging his dead oil lamp, even if his limbs are locked and his heartbeat is nothing but a shush in the deafening wind. The lamp had died out just a few minutes ago, long after the boy had laid his head down to sleep for eternity, long after the boy had stumbled into the spirit’s domain, long after that man had left him at the edge of the forest with a few hushed words and a hot kiss on his cheeks. The kid may have a few similar characteristics to that man, maybe the tan of his skin or the shade of his eyes, the spirit certainly wouldn’t know. He had long since forgotten how that man looked like. Humans were easy to forget when you’ve lived for hundreds and thousands of years after all.
He doesn’t know if the boy is dead or alive. He doesn’t want to find out.
Humans are bad omen. They leave dread and destruction on their path, loud smoky machines and empty threats, oil machines and steam engines. The spirit had his fair share of encounters with the boy’s kind, seemingly innocent creatures with the hidden intent to kill and capture and torture, and the spirit with his weakened state and absent mind could only do so much to protect his small pathetic life.
Still, the spirit is curious.
He’s always been, perhaps it’s his last connection to the human mortal world. He’s nosy and inquisitive and so easy to please it’s almost comical in a strange, twisted way.
He just wants to take a closer look, that’s what all he wants. A glance at the boy’s flushed face, his red nose, his fluttering eyelashes before Death sucks all the life out of him for once and for all. Perhaps the kid is already long gone, maybe the spirit was too slow with his small pyro body and even slower mind. He crawls further, one step at a time.
The kid is breathing and it leaves the spirit breathless, as if he was the one bothered by icy winds and endless white snow that burns human skin if it gets feverish with the desire to stay alive. Hot air leaves his body in small white puffs, a fragile sign of life, pulse weak. His body must be waiting for Death to come and guide it towards eternity, his poor lost soul awake and lonely and frightened by the idea of passing on.
The spirit feels bad. He wants to help, he really does, but he’s not one to intervene often. He’s weak and pathetic, his flames frail and sluggish and slow, and he doubts his warmth is enough to keep up with the harsh winds until help arrives. If it even does, the spirit has his doubts. It’s a rare sight to see humans around this area where a mad dragon had settled and the smell of anemo is so strong it leaves you breathless and anaemic, lost.
The boy shifts, groaning softly. His eyes are truly a sight to behold, star shaped pupils staring right at him from afar. And then he smiles, soft and sluggish and delirious, but it leaves the spirit awestruck. It’s been a while since anyone had spared a glance at his direction, and he gleams at the newfound attention, hungrily drinking up every last droplet before the kid freezes to death for good.
“Why are you all the way over there? You should be in my lamp, keeping me nice and warm.” the boy mutters under his breath, and his voice is shaky and weak and oh so desperate to cling onto the back of Life’s skirt, to urge her to keep going and take him with her one more time.
Before he knows it, the spirit shifts closer. He drags his flames through the thick layer of snow, his body sizzling and popping in protest, and it’s been so long since he had felt that familiar pain it leaves him delirious, his mind wandering away to old nights filled with love filled touches and feather light kisses. But still, he keeps moving, he keeps dancing, he doesn’t stop until he reaches the little lamp, crawling into it as if it’s always been his home, and starts dancing. His flames are weak and pathetic, he’s lukewarm at best, but the boy sights contently, leaning over him to cradle him in his arms, to hug him tightly and lovingly, and the spirit’s heart feels so full he is scared he will burst from hot flaming pyro.
When the air shifts colder, he grows restless, afraid, panicked. His flames drink up the last drops of oil hungrily, desperately trying to provide some extra warmth for the shivering body of an abandoned soul. He doesn’t stop until the kid is nice and snug and content against him again, he doesn’t rest until he knows they’re both safe and sound.
The air is thick around them, heavy and choking and so overbearing it’s almost impossible to ignore, but the boy is sleeping contently, hugging the lamp tighter. Barbatos is there, watching over them, but the little flame is way too content to pay him any mind. The Archon smiles softly at the pair, picking them up with a gentle windcurrent, carrying them to more tender lands where the air is warm and the grass is pleasantly green and alive. He puts them down not too far from a lone building, right under a sunsettia tree, giggling one more time before disappearing in a puff on anemo.
They stay there for a few hours. The boy had stopped shivering, the gentle sun keeping him soft and pleasantly warm, but the spirit’s flames are still running, channelling pyro energy every so often to make sure he stays comfortable and snug against the lamp’s rough interior.
When the boy shifts, he stills. When the boy looks up, his flames die down, reduced to shy licks of oranges and yellows. But the boy just smiles, his eyes glassy from sleep, and he hugs the lamp again. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to. The spirit understands him.
They stay there, under the sunsettia tree, for archons know how long. The boy picks a few fruit off the tree, munching on them silently. They’re soft and content and snug, and the spirit never once misses his lonely days spent alone hiding in piles of yellowish leaves. His flames lick at his body roughly, demanding food, fuel, but he ignores the hungry desires. He knows the end is near, he’d known it ever since he had first looked up at the boy surrounded by pure white.
But he had lived for long enough. He had spent centuries as a mere feather, spent decades wandering in the wilderness all by himself. He doesn’t regret anything.
A man comes. Crimson curls frame his face, and his wrinkles are unnecessary deep with worry. The spirit doesn’t mind his presence, he smells like old barrels and dandelion wine. If anything, he urges the kid to take his hand. He trusts the man, even if he’s a stranger, even if he’s a mere human. He hopes the kid will be at good hands.
The two of them walk towards the lone mansion, the spirit’s flames guiding them softly, patiently. The building is old and inviting, warm, but the smell of death is heavy in the air. She must be close then, wrapping the whole place in her transparent veil of pain and despair. It’s a feeling the spirit is awfully familiar with, and although it should make him feel scared, it does nothing but sooth him with a gentle lullaby, pulling him in deeper, urging him to lay his head down on the soft fabric and travel to unknown lands with the help of her powers. And, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he doesn’t yearn for more in this life, not anymore. He had served his purpose as a feather, as a spirit, as a mere flame in an oil lamp. He doesn’t want more.
Upon arriving, the man’s face darkens. The circles under his eyes are a prominent feature on his otherwise soft face, and that warm light in his eyes is gone. For a second, the spirit second guesses if it was the right idea to let him get this close to the boy, to his boy. But he trusts his judgement, trusts that the kid knows what is expected of him. A maid comes, taking the kid and his lamp with her after a few exchanged words with the man. Tiny snippets of ‘son’ ‘fever’ and ‘prayer’ is all it takes for him to sew together a believable tale.
They’re taken to a room in the right wing of the mansion. The walls are a pleasant crème colour and the floor is well polished and clean. The bed in the corner looks soft and comfortable, and the kid lays down in it in an instant, sleeping soundly the second his head hits the pillow. His body and mind are exhausted beyond belief, it is truly a miracle he had stayed awake for this long. When the maid smiles down at his sleeping form lovingly, taking off his shoes and wrapping him up in a soft blanket, the spirit’s mind finds peace.
He wants to stay with him, preferably forever. He’s not sure why he’s so fascinated with a human child of all things, but throughout his painfully long life, he had learned one thing and one thing only; never question the motives of a pure heart.
He wants to stay with him forever, but he can’t. His burning pyro is not compatible with the boy’s soul, such a destructive power isn’t suited for such a pure creature. He knows that one day the boy will receive the gift of the gods with a soothing element, but now is not the time, the kid is still too pure, too fresh, too innocent.
Glancing out the window, he sees Death looking back at him.
He had found a father to this kid. Why not find a brother as well?
He asks Death to take him to the poor soul, and Death complies. Perhaps she feels relieved that the spirit had a change of heart, perhaps it’s only her own curious mind fuelled by desires in hopes of easy entertainment. He slips out of the lamp before the maid could turn off his flames, snuggly curling up in death’s hands instead. Her touch is cold and dreadful, but the chill against his pyro is strangely soothing. It’s lonely like a lost lover’s last kiss, a nostalgic feeling that leaves your chest gaping and hollow. It’s nothing like the kid’s soft touches or warm hugs, but the spirit was never one to nurse greedy thoughts.
They’re standing in front of a bed, frame small and the walls lined with colourful plush creatures, wonderful beings made out of mohair and stuffed with wood wool. It’s a kid, age similar to his kid, with wild crimson hair like his dad’s and death written all over his small body. His skin is covered in rashes, his hair is sticking to his skin with sweat, and his half open eyes are drowned in the heights of delirium. His chest is rising slowly and weakly, his breath shallow, and the spirit doesn’t have to get closer to feel the heat radiating from his body. The kid is burning up with a fever.
“Are you sure you want to gift this kid?” Death asks and the spirit’s gentle flames lick at her fingers carefully.
He had a wonderful life; he couldn’t possibly ask for more. His years were either fulfilled with the excitement of adrenaline pulsing through his very being or were spent nice and quiet and cozy, slowly wasting away in the wilderness, waiting for the day Death would fly down from Celestia to take him back with her. Why not end it now, why not gift the power of pyro to someone in need if it means the kid’s life could fuse with the person’s who had showed the spirit what love and appreciation was one last time?
His life for a hug, his power for a smile, his very being for a promised future. He will take the offer with contentment in his heart.
The next day, he awakens to the gentle chatter of humans. They’re hugging and crying and the domesticity is so foreign it makes him lose his breath. His boy is at the door looking at the scene idly, only to be pulled in by that crimson man with the warmest smile he had seen on his face ever since they’ve set foot in the mansion. His kid – Kaeya – sits on that bed right next to the crimson child, with the small frame of the bed and plush creatures, smiling shyly at his new family, and the spirit’s heart swells with pride.
The youngest Ragnvindr was magically saved from the plague by obtaining a pyro vision at the heights of his delirium. The spirit is living behind a thick layer of glass now, snuggly curled up into a ball and letting his pyro swirl and spark and pop beautifully. He lets the boy use him freely, lets him harvest his pyro and channel it into his claymore, he lets him mold him and play with his sparks for hours and days, for as long as he pleases. He’s never feisty, never difficult, his flames are gentle and still a bit fragile, but the boy adapts to his gentle nature easily.
Kaeya likes to look at him through the thick layer of glass, holding him up gently like he’s the most precious gem in the world, and if the spirit gives off a bit more warmth that usual no one mentions it.
When Kaeya touches the layer of glass, he puts his own hand on the other side gently.
He was oh so ready to greet Death with open arms, but his fragile pathetic flames are still needed, they make the boys oh so happy, oh so content. He lives on in the body of a boy named Diluc, brother of Kaeya, and although his own body is bound to the shape of a vision, he feels strangely content.
Perhaps he could stay for a little longer, he could settle down in this domestic bliss. He already found a new home behind that layer of glass after all.