An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
There is a common saying amongst Harlequins. There is, currently, only one person living who knows what it means, though if the others make it back from Shoin's in one piece, he'll tell them too.
Sasha Rackett and the people who loved her. Sasha Rackett and the people she loved. Sasha Rackett and the past that wields her. Sasha Rackett, and the legacy that others will wield.
Only when Sasha starts patting herself down, a look of extreme distress on her face, does Zolf dare to say anything. “Er, Sasha?”
She rips off her coat and starts searching through pockets. “What?”
“You okay there?”
“I’ve lost-“ she picks it up and angrily shakes it out. “I’ve lost one of my daggers,” she says sulkily. “I’m missin’ one, I must have lost it in the blast…”
“Small knives always come back twice,” Zolf quips, and Sasha looks at him like he’s grown an extra head.
“What?”
Zolf looks embarrassed. “Erm. Sorry, it was- it was somethin’ my dad used to say. Or, er, somethin’ along those lines. Don’t remember the exact wordin’.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Er. I think it just means that you… you always-“ Zolf grimaces. “Find knives twice? I dunno, somethin’ about things always comin’ back when you need ‘em. Or maybe about, er, like- things comin’ back to stab you in the back when you don’t expect it?”
Sasha stares blankly at him. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Zolf says gruffly, very much meaning it, and turns back to polishing his trident.
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