chasing daybreak

The sensation should be familiar to most Au Ra. Not him. Somewhere along the way he became unaccustomed to the heat. His life since childhood is defined by Coerthan grit and cold, even before the Calamity turned the region into an icebound waste. Sojourns into the Dravanian Forelands and the Black Shroud—or even the northern most reaches of Thanalan—cannot compare to the raw Gyr Abanian sun at the height of summer.

For what it’s worth his skin is burning, too. Already it has the weathered violet cast it gets when he spends too much time in the mountains when the sky is clear and the sun is high and the snows are so bright he is in danger of going blind. Last night Rielle told him straight to his face he’s turning into an onion.   

“Oh, you know,” she explained with a huff, giving Aureia that knowing look she gives her when they share something he’s not privy to. “Purple and peeling. And you smell. And I think you make my eyes water.” 

He thought about the onion comment that night while he prepared for bed. He thought about it again when Aureia woke him to trade watch. He thought about it again that morning while he chewed on a piece of smoked jerky for breakfast.

The onion comment had no bearing on their decision to detour to the river.

Splash. 

“Aureia, look! Aureia! Aureia!”

Delighted giggles echo downstream.

What was intended to be a short diversion to fish and resupply has turned into a day of leisure. He was irritated at first, grumbling about the delay. Ishgard is a long way on foot, and they are already travelling slow thanks to his injuries. He and Rielle do not have the benefit of travelling by chocobo or aetheryte the way Aureia does. He spent the morning stubbornly standing guard over their camp in full armour with greatsword in hand. Aureia said he was being stubborn for the sake of it, and left to explore the shoreline with Rielle.

She wasn’t entirely wrong.

By midday he was defeated. After baking the morning away in his armour, he stripped it off and plunged into the river to cool down. His feet may have sunk through a fulm of silt and the water may have barely come up to his knees, but feeling it then was more divine than anything anointed by a blasted Halonic priest. He retreated to a smooth, flat rock on the shoreline and lay down, tail curled around him. When Aureia and Rielle returned, they found him sprawled on his back with an arm thrown over his face and his feet in the water, fast asleep.

They let him rest.

A part of him remains resistant. That grinding gear in the back of his mind that says he must always be on the move, always watching, always preparing. Though many moons have passed since the Godhand was put to rest, the fear that he will be caught off-guard and Rielle will pay the price of his failure has never quite left.

Perhaps it is with good reason.

To the outside eye, Ishgard has been reformed and all is right within its walls. The Lord Commander has done his duty and reshaped the city-state into the finest version of itself. But little thought is given to what lurks beneath a charming and wealthy man’s persuasive words and the façade presented by the new government. No matter how well-intentioned the House of Lords and the House of Commons may be, prejudices fester like rot in the walls, hiding in secret until long after they have become a problem. Those who slaughtered his parents have been dead for years, but many who still think like them remain within the ranks of the Temple Knights. Ser Aymeric would have to dismiss more than half his knights to be rid of them all, a choice he cannot afford. Not without crippling his army and exposing his nation so soon into his alliance with Eorzea.

But perhaps it is not. He may have every reason to fear, but a growing part of him desires to deny it. Rest does not come easily to him, nor does the ability to let go. They are as foreign to him as the summer wind. But this business that began with Aureia’s shattered soul crystal has brought many questions that do not have answers, and as he sits here by a quiet river on a sweltering summer’s day he finds himself doubting the instincts that kept them all alive. Something is changing, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of their weapons where they rest against a tree. A dark steel greatsword carved with runes—once Fray’s blade, now hers—slumps over, its hilt bumping against his.

Our journey. Our end. 

The words come quietly to him, as if whispered on the wind. Would Fray be happy knowing this is where his sacrifice led them?

He thinks he would.

Splosh. 

Something heavy hits the water and Rielle shrieks, joyous laughter ringing in the air as Aureia splutters and curses. More splashes and shrieks follow. Something must be happening down there. With some regret, Sidurgu rises to his feet, grumbling as he shakes a numb leg awake. Bloody hells, how long has he been here on this rock? Four bells? More? Too long. No wonder his scales are burning. Judging from the position of the sun and the gold-tinged sky, it is late in the afternoon and evening approaches.

Shrugging it off, he steps into the river and heads upstream.

He finds them playing in the shallows with their trousers rolled up to their knees. Aureia’s fishing gear lies haphazardly on the shore next to a couple of freshly caught fish. Her tunic is spread wide on the grass, weighed down by a collection of rocks—a pure white pebble the size of a child’s palm, an irregularly shaped stone, a chunk of what must be the red stone so prominent in Ala Mhigan homes, and a shard of an earth crystal.

Rielle stands in the centre of the river, one foot submerged and the other perched on a wobbly rock. She’s pinned her fringe back from her face. The tips of her nose and ears are sunburnt. Mercifully, she is mostly dry, save for the bottoms of her trousers. She cups her hands and proffers them as she prattles away, delight shining in her eyes. Beside her, Aureia laughs and leans over, gesturing at the river creature in her hands. She is soaked to the bone and has attempted to knot her dark hair at the top of her head, but the length is too short and it is already unravelling.

Rielle catches sight of him. Her face lights up. “Sid!” she calls. “Sid!”

He grins and raises a hand, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare. “Look at you!”

“I caught one! I caught one!”

“Caught what?”

“Um. We’re not sure. I—oh no!”

A small, skittery thing leaps from Rielle’s hands and plummets into the river with a splash. She yelps and pulls her hands tight into her chest, aghast. Aureia snorts and bends over laughing, hands on her knees.

Behind her, Sidurgu chortles.

Rielle looks from her to him and back again, and her face cracks into a wide grin. Soon, she is laughing, too.

“Rielle,” Aureia says once they have laughed themselves out. “Can you do me a favour and take our catch back to camp? Make a fire if you want, it will be sundown soon.”

Rielle nods and scrambles across the river, picking her way over the rocks as if she has made this crossing a dozen times before. “What, Sid?” she calls, gathering up the gear. She puts the fish on top of her collection of rocks and hefts the woven basket. “I can help.”

He holds back a laugh. “I never said you couldn’t.”

“I know how to make a fire.” She flushes pink with pride. “I can cook, too. You don’t always have to do it for me, you know. It’s nice when you do so I have an excuse to be lazy, but sometimes I want to do it myself!”

“The fish?” he repeats.

Her eyes narrow. “What else? I’m not holding apples, now am I?”

He presses his lips together. It would not do to laugh. Not now. “No, I suppose you’re not.”

“Stop teasing me. Aureia doesn’t tease me.”

“I’m not teasing—”

“I know how to gut a fish, Sid.” She says it with all the determination of someone who has never done the task but has watched others do it countless times. “I don’t need help.”

“I never said—”

“I don’t need help!”

Hefting the fish, she gives him one last pointed glare then picks her way through the brush back to camp.

Sidurgu sighs, shaking his head, and turns back to the river.

His jaw drops.

Aureia stands in the middle of the river bathed in golden light, blue-green water rushing around her as she glances over her shoulder at him. Her expression softens—ruby eyes wide, chapped lips parted—and she rakes her fingers through her wet hair, pulling the escaping strands back into the knot. The points of her ears turn red in the sun. Her sodden trousers pull low on her hips and her undershirt clings to her breasts (not that he is looking). She has shortened it by twisting the hem into a knot above her bellybutton to keep it out of the way. The straps tie at the nape of her neck, leaving her shoulders and upper back bare—scars and all. Water droplets shine on her sunkissed skin, catching the sunlight.

Standing here in the shallows like this, she could very well be a river spirit of yore.

“Hey,” she says.

He swallows his surprise. “Hey.”

“You made it.”

“I did.”

“Sleep well?”

“I…”

A thought lingers in the fringes of his mind.

He brushes it away.

Aureia laughs, the corners of her eyes creasing as a grin spreads across her face. Knotting the last of the loose strands, she picks her way across the shallows to the far side of the river. Her steps are swift and nimble, almost like a dance. She doesn’t dance as far as he knows, except with the Lord Commander at Ishgardian balls (not that she has attended one in years). How does someone as surefooted as her fall into the river? Did she do it on purpose? Perhaps to make Rielle laugh, or to chase a creature she spotted but was too afraid to catch herself. He can picture it quite easily, Aureia diving into the waters without fear or care for her own dignity. There are a multitude of ways in which the Warrior of Light is self-sacrificing.

The small ways are the ones that matter the most.

“You shouldn’t tease her,” Aureia says, leaping from the last rock and onto the shore.

He folds his arms. Damn. His mind is drifting. “What?”

“Rielle. You shouldn’t tease her.”

“I wasn’t teasing her! Don’t tell me you agree with her—”

She gives him a look.

Damn it. Foot in his mouth. Again. He was not meant for this. “Bloody hells. Damn if I know what is going on with her these days.”

“She’s growing up. You can’t expect her to remain the child she was when you first met.”

That was pointed. “I know.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you remember what it was like being her age?” she asks, meandering upstream along the rocky shore.

He follows without question, choosing to wade rather than walk. The river deepens on the other side of the shallows, and soon he finds himself waist-deep in the water. Minnows dart around his legs and tail, bumping curiously against his scales. They must think him a giant lizard or some sort. “Of course I do,” he says. “But I was already under my master’s guidance at the time. Circumstances did not give me the allowance to be as expressive with my emotions. At least not all the time.”

“That’s the question, then, isn’t it? Do you want to commit her to training in the ways of war, or do you want her to have a childhood?”

“I think she should choose for herself.” Water ripples around him, gentle and carefree. It would be a shame to leave it so soon. “I suppose she must soon enough. Once we return to Ishgard.”

They walk a little further. Around the bend, the river widens into a deep pool where a waterfall plunges over the red crags so common in this region. The remnants of an Imperial airship cling to the top of the cliffs, its burnt-out carcass abandoned many years ago. No one has thought to remove it—not the Garleans when they occupied this territory, and not the Ala Mhigans now they have reclaimed it.

A spit of land juts out into the pool. Aureia walks the length of it, then finally comes to a halt and sits cross-legged in the sand. “Did you have days like this?” she murmurs, ruby eyes fixed on the rushing waterfall. “When you were little, I mean? Before Ompagne.”

A diplomatic way of putting it, delicately leaving the other event out.

“I… I’m not sure.” Sidurgu wades out of the pool and joins her, his tail curling behind him. His scales glisten in the light of the setting sun. “I don’t remember much.”

“You said you were from Doma?”

“Yes, though I can’t tell you where.” Beyond them, the waterfalls roars. If he shifts his body and tilts his head at the right angle, the airship is hidden by an outcrop. “There was a green river. It was… peaceful.” He can still recall the way the light sparkled on the surface. “I used to wade in the reeds, looking for frogs.”

Aureia chuckles quietly. “It was crabs for me.” There’s a pain in her voice like a reopened wound. “My… brother, really, but we did everything together.”

A lump forms in his throat. Bloody hells, when did he get so sentimental? “There were plum trees near the river.” He remembers that well. Pink blossoms in the wind. “I wanted one so damn badly, my mother put me on my father’s shoulders so I was high enough to reach.” You’ll be tall one day, Sidurgu. I promise. Why do these words come to him now? Did she even speak them, or did he simply bridge the gap in his memory with a figment of his imagination? “My mother… she braided flowers in her hair.”

Those days are so distant now, the memory of his mother’s embrace and his father’s laugh lost to time. A sharp pain aches beneath his ribs. It’s been so long since he has tried to recall, he can’t remember what they looked like. Not the shape of his father’s horns, or the colour of his mother’s eyes. They are ruined canvases in his mind, charred holes where their faces should be. The most he has of them is their name and even that has faded. Sidurgu Orl traded for Sidurgu of the Obsidian Heart.

Funny that he cannot recall his own mother’s face, but he remember Rielle’s mother’s quite well—right before he severed her head from her neck.

Aureia shifts her weight and shuffles close, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her weight is comforting, and he finds himself wishing the conversation to last. But the sun is setting in earnest now, and it won’t be long before they must return to camp.

“Do you ever think you would return?” she says after a moment.

“No.” He swallows the lump. “Too far.”

“You could travel by aetheryte—”

“I was too young to attune. Not everyone has the capacity to make a journey around the world like you, Aureia. If I do choose to board such a ship again, then I have become either delusional or old or both. Or the Moogles have scrambled my mind.” The objection is harsher than he intended, but it is not seasickness that he opposes. It is what happens after disembarking in a foreign land. “There is no point in going back. That place may no longer exist. Even if it does, what good does it do me? I am not of Doma. Not anymore. Ishgard is more my home than it ever was.”

The words are wrong, but he says them anyway. It doesn’t have to be right to be a truth. Whether he likes it or not, he is as tied to that city as any Temple Knight. “Ask me again another day and I might say I would give anything to see that green river again.”

She nods soberly and falls silent, lacing her fingers with his. There’s a warmth in his scales again, tender and unfamiliar, and this time it has nothing to do with the heat of the sun.

He ignores it.

Squeezing her hand, he curls his tail around her and turns his gaze to the heavens. Scarlet and orange streaks across the sky as the sun sinks below the rocky crags and spires, and the first stars emerge from the depths. Seven hells, he is grateful for her company. Grateful for the day, too, come to think of it. He should thank her for insisting they stop. It is one day out of many on this journey, after all. There is no reason to rush.

There will not be any other days like this once they are back on the road.

Pulling out a handful, she shoves the gil across the counter to the attendant giving her a dirty look and ducks through the heavy curtain to the change room beyond. Much to her relief it is not busy—if she had to come here, then Malathar picked her time well. Not many Ala Mhigans would consider bathing at this time of late morning—not when the markets have opened and there are daily tasks to be done. The chamber is empty save for a handful of wizened grandmothers lounging about in the nude, nattering on about the accomplishments of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren as if it were a competition.

They shut their mouths the moment she enters, fixing her with judgmental stares.

She shrugs and stalks across tiled floor, heading for the arched threshold that leads out to the baths.

One of them clears her throat with a loud, frog-like croak.

Fordola stiffens, her pace slowing to halt. She can feel their eyes boring into her. The sensation is familiar; it’s how everyone looks at her these days. “What do you want?” she grunts, glancing over her shoulder.

The crone crooks her finger and points it at her feet. “Sandals off, young lady,” she rasps. “Someone your age should know better.”

She swallows hard, bracing for the insult that must be coming. Does she not recognize her? Or are she and her friends simply playing the fool and pretending otherwise? “Is your eyesight dim, old woman?” she spits back.

The crone throws back her head and laughs. “Indeed, it is!” Grabbing her cane, she rises slowly from the bench and wobbles towards her, shriveled breasts flopping against her chest. “But what I’ve lost in eyesight I’ve gained with my ears, and my ears never lie. I hear those things flopping around on your feet, and I say take them off. No one wants dirt in their nice, clean bath.”

“I won’t be long. I’m here to see a… a friend.”

“Don’t care what you’re here for. Whether it be for one minute or one bell or one Rhalgr-blessed day, the sandals—” She raps the butt of her cane on the tiles ilms away from Fordola’s toes. “—go off.”

Fordola grits her teeth. Without a word, she stoops and yanks the ties free, then kicks them off and pushes them under a bench.

The old crone harumphs approvingly. “Good girl. And word for the wise—”

“I am not here for advice—”

The cane strikes the floor. She shuts her mouth.

“Do more than visit your friend. You stink.”

Fordola flushes, anger heating her cheeks. The old woman’s not wrong. The city is sweltering during the dry season, and she’s been pacing the length of the battlements every day for wont of something to do. Such regular activity leaves her sweating and sweltering, and there is only so much a bucket of water and a sponge can do. But the thought of visiting the public baths fills her with dread; she can easily imagine the stares that would follow her and the remarks whispered behind her back. She isn’t scared—of course she isn’t, she has faced worse in her life—but she is not going to suffer the indignity of stripping down to nothing only to be mocked and gawked at by her kin. It is only because Malathar came here that she bothered to cross the threshold in the first place.

She opens her mouth to reply and—to her surprise—finds she has nothing to say.

The old woman chuckles. Reaching out with a spotted, veined hand, she pats her on the wrist, then turns and totters back to her friends. Fordola pauses, brow furrowed with confusion, and averts her eyes so as not to stare straight at a wrinkled rear end. Her anger fades as quickly as it appeared, or perhaps it never truly sparked in the first place. The old crone does not know who she is.

She yelled at her the way she would yell at any young woman breaking bath house rules.

A lump forms in her throat.

Shaking it off, Fordola strides barefoot across the warm, damp tiles and exits the chamber.

The baths are in the courtyard beyond. A long, rectangular pool fills the centre, open to clear skies and bright sun above. Steam rolls off the surface like mist, filling the courtyard with dense, muggy air. The perimeter is lined with intricate mosaics, tiled in the same way as the walls and columns. Some show their age and wear more than others. There are those that are cracked down the middle or missing a piece here and there, but others—like the broken Ala Mhigan emblem on the wall—were surgically excised during Garlean occupation. This bath house never stopped being a bath house, but like the rest of the city it bears the scars of war even in the most mundane of places.

Aureia Malathar sits at the far end of the pool with her elbows out and resting on the tiles, half-submerged in the water. A tray of soaps, oils and towels lies nearby, all unused. Her head tips back, leaving her throat exposed and damp hair clinging to the skin—she must have put her head under recently. Her eyes are closed, her expression at peace. She has never seen her calm, even when she is asleep.

Water laps gently at her body, rising and falling against her breasts, pale beneath the surface.

The heat returns to her cheeks, and this time it has nothing to do with anger.

Fordola averts her gaze, forcing her eyes to move to the potted plant in the corner. It’s tempting to turn right around and head back out to the street. She has no business interrupting the Warrior of Light. She should leave her be.

But she did come here for reason.

She bites her tongue until it hurts.

“Didn’t expect you to be back so soon,” Fordola says at last, forcing the words out before she turns coward and runs.

Malathar does not move. She does not even open her eyes. “I go where I’m needed,” she replies softly. “And I’m needed here for now. Doma again soon.”

Fordola wets her lower lip. Crossing her arms over her chest, she inches away from the threshold and takes up position with her back to the wall. From here, she has a good view of both the entrance and the arched windows on the far side of the courtyard. If anyone approaches, she will know before they enter.

“Never in one place for long are you, huh?” she remarks.

Even she can hear how it sounds like an insult.

The pool sloshes as Malathar lowers her arms and sinks deeper below the surface, the water now coming up to her neck. “I have duties, Fordola. This is how it has always been.”

“Pfft.”

Fordola looks away, rolling out a crick in her neck. Before she knew her—properly knew her, not as an enemy but as a… companion, for lack of a better word—it didn’t occur to her how much time the Warrior of Light spent on the road. Of course she knew she traversed the continents, but even with the convenience of aetheryte travel bounding from one end of the star and back to the other on a weekly basis takes its toll. Dark circles beneath her eyes, creases in her brow, a pale, sickly cast to her face.

All signs she has recently had a close encounter with the Empire.

Fordola grimaces and pushes down her curiosity. If Malathar has been fighting Imperial remnants in Othard, it will be up to her surrender the details. Though perhaps she can ask Arenvald later. He will know.

She pauses, her thoughts still stuck on Doma. A familiar pinch of jealousy clenches in her stomach. She has scarcely been outside the borders of Gyr Abania; at most it has been a foray into Gridania or back up the coast towards Terncliff. She never thought much of it before. In truth, she is uncertain whether she has ever wanted to leave. She still maintains a flare of pride that she and her parents never fled like the cowards who went to Little Ala Mhigo. But after meeting Malathar and Arenvald—even Lyse Hext and the irritating Leveilleur girl—their stories from beyond the borders made her feel… small.

Like she is a single grain of salt on the shores of Loch Seld.

And now she is fortunate to even leave the city of her birth. She is trapped behind its walls until the Alliance decides what to do with her.

“You’re obsessed with duty,” Fordola says at last, gaze now drawn to the windows. The curtains flutter in the breeze, blocking out the view of the bath house’s walled gardens and the city beyond. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Yes.” Another splash. “You sound like Sid.”

Her brow furrows. Though the name sounds familiar, she has a feeling she doesn’t mean Cid Garlond. That man is as duty-bound as Malathar is. A common theme with those who fled the Garlean military—they all have some need to bow and grovel to prove that their actions now can absolve them of their actions in the past, even if it means working themselves to the bone.

She finds it distasteful.

“I don’t mean to,” Fordola replies, looking back. “I—”

Her throat tightens.

Malathar stands with her back to her, water lapping around her thighs. Her pale skin shines in the steam, droplets clinging to her back and ass. It only makes the scar on her back stand out more—the faint arcane lines that stretch from her shoulder blades to the small of her back, imprinted upon twisted red and white flesh where something burned her long ago. A horrific injury, one she is careful to keep covered when out in public.

Fordola has never dared to ask her what happened. Such things are not her business.

The Warrior scoops her hair back from her neck, twists it together and pulls it over her shoulder. She bends over and plucks a bar of soap from the tray, rubs it between her palms, then runs her lathered hands over her body. Quick, detached, perfunctory. Fordola watches her in silence, digging her forearms into her chest as she draws them tighter around her body. Dampness creeps across her skin; she can feel it gathering on the nape of her beck. Even though the bath house is open to the air, it is warm in here. Too warm.

She slips a finger beneath her collar and tugs at it, ignoring the trickle of sweat dripping between her breasts.

Malathar pauses, glancing over her shoulder. “You can get in, you know,” she says, still lathering herself. “I don’t mind.”

Fordola’s jaw clenches. “I never thought you did.”

“You’re fully clothed and hovering by the door like you’re a guard on duty.”

“Maybe I like it right here.”

“It’s a public bath.”

“Aye.”

“People come here to bathe.”

Clunk. 

Malathar tosses the bar back into the tray. She turns around, shrouded in steam. Soap clings to her body, the lather slipping across her breasts, down her stomach and over the slight curve of her hips. There’s a bruise on her side—a big ugly thing, mottled purple and green.

Fordola frowns. She looks thinner than before. Smaller. Drained. It is difficult to see beyond the bruise, but she could swear the shape of her ribs are visible.

Malathar smiles with that strange smile of hers, the one she can never figure out. “Fordola,” she says quietly. “Come on.”

Fordola shoots her a look. Grumbling under her breath, she stoops and rolls her trousers up to the knee, then plops down on the edge of the pool and puts her feet in the water. She sucks in a breath, a painful sting arcing across the back of heel and the bottom of her foot. Damn blisters. Damn sandals. She’d request ones that fit, but the Resistance isn’t keen to outfit her with good gear that should go to her betters. She gets the scraps—that’s the lot she has given herself.

“There,” she grunts. “Happy now, are you?”

Malathar’s smile only widens. She steps deeper into the pool, bends her knees and dunks herself. Repeating the motion several more times, she washes off the rest of the soap and emerges spluttering, a veil of wet hair dripping over her face. “That’s not what I meant,” she replies belatedly, sweeping hair out of her eyes. She makes a face and pushes off the bottom of the pool.

Fordola chews her lower lip, watching her float back to the tray. A pang of envy rises in her chest; how can she be so at ease in a public place like this when anyone could come through that door? How can she be so comfortable in the water? While the pool isn’t deep, it is deep enough. The thought of all that water closing over her head, pushing her down to the bottom while she flails helplessly beneath the surface…

Her throat tightens.

“I’m not getting in the pool with you.”

“Suit yourself.”

Malathar reaches for a bottle and flips it upside down, tipping a small amount of its contents into the palm of her hand. Fordola holds her tongue, watching in silence as the Warrior lifts her hands to her head and runs the lather through her hair. Her movements are slow; there’s something odd about the way she lifts her shoulder. Another injury, perhaps.

Inhaling a sharp breath, Fordola pulls her feet out of the water and shuffles around the perimeter of the pool, careful not to slip on the damp tiles. “C’mere,” she says, sitting back down and plunging her feet into the water. This time her sole doesn’t sting quite as much. “Hate to see you struggle.”

“I don’t—”

“Just let me do it, all right?” She proffers a hand. “Do you want your hair washed or not?”

Malathar looks away and passes over the bottle without comment. Fordola swipes it out of her hand and holds it aloft, waiting as Malathar wades over to her. The water laps around her as she sinks down and settles between Fordola’s legs with her back against the pool wall.

Fordola tsks under her breath and rakes her hands over her head, fingertips catching on tangles. It is far more matted than it appeared, and the shock of red at the tips bleeds dark while wet. There was no red in her hair when she first saw her that day on the battlefield, well over a year ago now. It is a recent acquisition, although something tells her it has always been there, just masked.

Her fingertips pass over a swollen lump hidden beneath her hair. Malathar sucks in a pained breath, her expression working to keep it contained. Fordola draws back, uncertain of what she touched. A scalp wound? A knock to the head? Something else? Rhalgr’s tits, what is she hiding now? Between this and the bruise and the tightness in her shoulder, she can’t imagine she would have picked up so many injuries in Doma—not while in the company of the Alliance.

Wounds heal like this in the care of ordinary chirugeons, not beneath the magicks of powerful white mages.

Pressing her lips into a fine line, Fordola continues without a word. Slathering more lather between her palms, she runs it through her hair and gives her scalp a good scrub, taking care to avoid the sensitive spots. Slowly, Malathar relaxes—her body presses against her legs and she tilts her head back, leaning into her touch. Her eyes flutter closed and her expression stills with a sense of calm.

The pool laps in silence. Slowly, gently, like the waters of Loch Seld rippling along the shoreline on a quiet day. Sunlight streams in through the opening above, bouncing off the greenish-blue surface to reflect upon the walls. Though the busiest quarter of the city is only a few malms away it might as well be on the other side of the star. There is no one here but them, and they have nothing but time.

That is how it feels, at least.

Fordola swishes her feet back and forth, enjoying the pull of the water around them. “Want to tell me what happened?” she murmurs, running her fingers through her dark hair again. The tangles have long since been combed out.

A faint crease appears between Malathar’s brows. “About what?”

Resistance. Short and sharp. Funny how easily she shares her deepest secrets and most intimate parts of her, but other topics are out of bounds. Ul’dah. The Lord Commander. Ishgard. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Her duty, which encompasses far more than what the Alliance asks of her. Her personal promises—and vendettas.

Fordola’s fingers slow. Perhaps it’s not funny at all. If she is honest with herself—which she is not wont to do, given honesty hurts like a bloody blister stinging in too hot water or feels the same as drowning in a pool—she doesn’t know what she wants from her. No matter how many times they seek each other out, there will always be a wall between them. She can only know her so far.

Perhaps she should be grateful she has been given the chance to know her at all.

Malathar cracks an eye open. “Are you all right?” she asks quietly.

Fordola pulls her hands back and crosses her arms. “Dunk your head already,” she mutters, averting her gaze.

Malathar pushes away from the wall. Sucking in a deep breath, she slips below the surface and floats there, becoming a cloud of dark hair blooming in the water. She emerges moments later in a spray of water.

Fordola flinches as cool droplets land on her arms. “You could have done this in your chambers, you know,” she says, finally voicing the thought that has been on her mind since she entered the damn place. “Don’t understand coming to a place like this when you have all the comforts of—”

The water sloshes. “I had no desire to go to the palace just yet. I…”

Fordola glances at her. Malathar stands in the pool with her arms folded over her breasts, droplets trickling down her limbs. Her eyes flick up, ruby eyes looking at her from beneath dark lashes—and Fordola’s heart clenches.

The palace.

She does not need to say more than that.

Heaving a breath, Fordola rises to her feet and quickly strips, tossing her clothing onto a nearby bench. Now naked, she turns back around and sits down on the ledge, then carefully slips off and into the pool. Steam curls pleasantly around her as she wades through the warm water, surprised that it is not as deep as she thought. Snaking an arm around her waist, she pulls the Warrior—Friend? Companion? Lover?—towards her. She goes easily, buoyed by the water, and when she is pressed tight against her Fordola bows her head and puts her lips on hers.

Her mouth is wet and warm, her body loose and relaxed in her arms. And so she kisses her again and slips a hand over her belly and between her thighs.

The pool is quiet save for the sound of rippling water and the murmur of satisfied breath.