#eirys

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　𓏲𝄢　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Frances stalked up to the window, grip tightening on her sword, legs aching. She hadn’t pulled stunts like these since early in her ca—first career. The later years of her knighthood, decorated as she came to be, were spent at guard posts and parades. Go figure that the more competent you proved yourself to be, the less of a chance you were given to prove it.

There was some credit to all of the rumors, seeing that the cottage was in much better shape than the last time Frances had seen it as a little girl. The shattered and grimy windows were replaced and spotless, a few fixed with stained glass in the shapes of weeds and dancing beasts. The snarls of wild berry bushes had been trimmed down as well. And, of course, there was movement in the cottage.

Her breath caught and her movement stilled as she watched, waited. The view was limited—this was one of the clear-paned windows, and the lack of light it got was apparently reason enough to allow for a bookshelf to be placed before it. But through tomes and scrolls and paperbacks, Frances could just make out the upper body of a woman, turned almost fully away.

She had half an eye to notice that the interior of the cottage had been cleaned up and furnished as well, but the woman sitting at a bench before a worktable snared her gaze like a rabbit in a trap. Long pale hair curled over her shoulders, reaching past the point Frances could make out from here, iridescent in the light of one of the stained glass windows. She could just make out the curve of a smooth pale cheek past some sort of hair ornament that covered up her ears, and the very edges of long white lashes before the shelves covered up the top of her head. The woman was in something loose and filmy—house clothes no one was meant to see. Frances blushed, shamed.

Okay. She’d gone about this the wrong way. Maybe she should go for a more direct approach instead. Knock on the front door—pray that the woman put a robe on or she’d never be able to maintain eye contact. Ask her if she’d heard anything herself about a White Lady, for surely pale colored hair alone couldn’t make her she. Warn her to be careful.

And, fine, maybe if the mood felt right, invite her for a few drinks. Frances had invited far lesser women to join her for a night for weaker reasons. And though she regretted having to pull out her light armor for nothing in the brutal summer heat, at least it flattered her.

So, Frances snuck back away to approach the cottage properly. She could see now that the porch had been furnished with rocking chairs and potted plants. The door had a knocker of a vaguely disturbing grinning face, but most knockers were disturbing. She knocked.

She waited with trepidation. No call came from inside the cottage, but Frances could hear the sound of her approaching, more percussive than bare feet. Maybe she wore heels with her filmy night dresses—and Frances was going to stop thinking about that before she got ahead of herself.

The door opened, and Frances quickly experienced emotional whiplash. Fading embarrassment at her wandering thoughts (man, she needed to get laid). Relief that the woman had in fact found a robe to put on, short as it was. And then dawning horror at her grave mistake.

Piercing through a set of short, curly bangs were a set of spiraling horns, pale gold and sturdy. That hair ornament Frances had thought she’d seen was one of a pair of long, furred ears, like a farm animal’s ear except that it faded into a dark violet at each tip. What Frances couldn’t see past the bookshelf further down was the beginning of a long, tapered tail, tufted at the end with more curling white hair. And there were no heels befitting her earlier imaginings, for there was no way to don heels over those cloven hooves, furred over with more violet fur that lightened all the way up her satyr’s legs.

And when she finally made her way back to the woman’s face, because it turned out eye contact would be hard to keep after all, she found the finishing details to seal the deal. A sheep like nose, pink nostriled and white furred, no mistake. Lambent yellow eyes, like a hawk’s, strangely slitted like a four-pointed star. And when the woman grinned, watching Frances analyze her, it revealed sharper teeth than she’d been expecting, other features be damned.

“Oh, delightful!” the woman cried, leaning against the doorway. One clawed hand, that Frances had mistaken for long nails and amber polish, came up to rest at her hip. “You came back. I was a little worried, honestly.”

Frances swallowed. “Came back?”

The woman threw her head back as she laughed, causing her hair to shift. Her tail flicked behind her, and Frances saw then that not only was the iridescence just there, windows or not, it seemed to come off in wisps at the ends as she moved, like a cloud evaporating. “Well you were here only moments earlier, no? I didn’t see you, of course, I didn’t want to give it away. But I was so hoping you’d come to say hello. I get so few visitors these days.”

Frances fucked up. She really fucked up. For there was no chance this was not the White Lady of the Woods, terror of Thornsweet. Depositor of bugs in cradles, planter of poisonous plants where children played, snatcher of windowsill pastries.

This was no damsel. This was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

She should demand the reason for her terrorizing. She should chase her out.

Eirys eyed the woman across from her. The end of her tail flicked back and forth in what was definitely just mild annoyance, and not poorly-masked interest.

The baker’s daughter-turned knight-turned baker of Clearwater sat across from her at the dining table, flipping through her share of the tomes Eirys had brought back from her last Flicker. Her dark brown hair was pushed haphazardly from her eyes with a red bandana, choppy layers waving around her ears and temples. A pair of wire spectacles were perched on the bridge of a straight nose, the dark eyes behind them flicking to-and-fro as pages of dense and archaic text were scanned with a scholar’s ease. She rested her chin against the fist of her free hand, fingers caloused yet graceful even at rest, muscles of her arm effortlessly flexed from the position against the sleeves of her shirt, skin a light nut-brown. She looked both entirely comfortable with the peace and quiet, and in the same moment ready to leap into action at the faintest suggestion.

In her own way, Frances had lived a respectable number of lives for a mortal. Maybe that was why Eirys couldn’t help herself from feeling… connected to her.

Her tail was still flicking. Wisps of prismatic vapor broke off as each arc reversed, glimmering and curling in the air even as they thinned out into nothing. Her grip tightened on her own tome, claws digging into the fragile paper. She took a deep breath, willing herself into serenity. Frances looked up.

“What is it?”

Eirys rolled her eyes, long ears flicking back. “Can’t a woman breathe in peace?” she asked, scoffing.

Frances kept on pinning her with an even, expectant stare. And Eirys did not squirm beneath it, because she was an immortal celestial entity, and immortal celestial entities did not squirm beneath the stares of mortals.

It was just downright demeaning.

“I think I just need a break. A change of pace,” Eirys supplied, stretching. “Do you want some tea? A scone?”

Frances gave Eirys her version of a grin—eyes softened, the faintest whisper of a smile hidden behind rosy lips. “I’d like that. Thank you.” And without further preamble her nose was back in her book.

Eirys got up from the table, cloven hooves making a satisfying clop, clop against the wooden floor as she made her way to her kitchenette. She glanced at Frances once more as she set the water to boil, then out the window of her cottage, looking upon tangles of sunlit berry bushes and wildflowers.

Change of pace had been an interesting turn of phrase to use. Eirys felt like her life had been nothing but a ‘change of pace’ for the last century. Her life had certainly taken a change of pace when she found her connection to Aster’s starstone severed, stranding her from the elf and the goddess without even knowing she should have said goodbye. It took a change of pace again about thirty years ago when she realized that she needed to take a less active approach to finding her way back home, trading the life of a scrappy adventurer for one of a hermit scholar. And it took a change of pace once more, when she broke her rule about meddling with the plane’s occupants—when she’d finally found a plane where her role was minor enough to leave her unbothered—to pull pranks on a pretty woman.

In her defense on the last point, she’d never expected anything to come of the pranks. Sure, the confrontation where Frances demanded that Eirys stop, quote, “stealing the pies off of her Gods-damned windowsill like a fairytale vagrant” was justified, but Eirys thought things would just get quiet again after that. The former knight successfully scaring off the cryptid in the woods (for a time), marking her safe to ignore as a whole once more.

But then Frances came back to the cottage again, a few days later, basket of goods in hand. A ‘show of good faith’ she’d called it, whatever that meant. Then Frances started hanging around as Eirys researched, lacking the heart to re-don her scary mask to get her to go away. And one day Frances picked up one of Eirys’ books, pulled a pair of glasses from a pocket in her shirt, and the rest was history.

Eirys wasn’t even sure if Frances knew what Eirys was researching for. She had to have an idea, sure, from the topics of the material Eirys had at her disposal. But not once did Frances pry into why Eirys was such a fanatic for different schools of scrying, teleportation spells, tracking charms, portals. She merely took her notes, underlining what she thought would be points of interest, and left them to Eirys when she left for the night. Eirys wondered what her assumptions were about the point of it all.

Her thinking was cut off by the whistle of the kettle—charmed by a woman she knew seventy years back to whistle the melody of a lullaby she liked. Soon she found herself back at the table, self-warming tea cups aromatic with herbs, scones drizzled with icing set on a platter between the two of them. (Frances had supplied the scones, of course. She brought some pastry or another with her everytime she came to Eirys’ cottage.)

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Aster was sick, and she wasn't getting any better. 

She was very likely getting worse, actually.

Tempest first noticed it a few moons ago. There was a change in how Aster's magic felt. Where her pull of it had always come easy—even if emotionally, it had become more difficult, leading up to when Aster Woke Up—a new sense of resistance had started to interfere. It was subtle to begin with, but Tempest was still pretty sure they noticed it right away, as familiar with the feel of the magic as they were. But she supposed there was no way to really know.

They didn't mention it to Aster. The elf didn't seem to notice it herself, which made enough sense to Tempest. Aster had never really held the reins of her own power. Before Tempest... interfered, the magic of Aster's starheart behaved erratically, with no rhyme or reason. Ever since, contained within Tempest's starstone embedded in Aster's chest, the star’s plane-flickering abilities had been at the goddess's disposal. With Aster now at their side, Tempest at least made a real effort to be Aster’s “remote” to her powers, in retribution for Tempest treating her as such in the past. It was no perfect solution, Tempest knew, and their guilt had yet to fully abate for the centuries in which they treated Aster like a puppet instead of a person, but it was an improvement.

No, Aster didn't notice. Not at first. But that resistance grew stronger, and Aster began to seem more fatigued, and Tempest's common companions of guilt and shame were joined by a new visitor—anxiety. 

(Tempest wondered sometimes if allowing herself to know Aster was really all that good for her, considering all of these new negative emotions and sensations they'd discovered since. They usually decided that it was all outweighed by the pleasure of Aster's company, and continued to tough it out.) 

Aster spent longer and longer on each plane, reluctant to flicker, and Tempest was hardly in a position to urge her to do otherwise. They suspected the flickering was what worsened Aster’s state, but shied away from refusing Aster’s whims when she voiced her desire to move on. Tempest had spent so long denying Aster her autonomy—they feared denying it of her ever again, even for her own good. Even if, when Aster did suggest a new destination, it seemed more like she was worried about Tempest getting bored than like she was ready to move on herself. 

The goddess had truly grown soft—cowardly—in her exile.

Until Aster flickered on her own.

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One minute, Aster was walking in the woods, chatting idly with Tempest's apparition as she searched for a rare summertime forageable. In the next, she was in the dark chamber of a dungeon, illuminated by the glowing underside of her hair, standing under the incoming blow of a giant's club.

Aster cried out—whether in surprise, fear, or pain, Tempest wasn't sure—but Aster had damn good reflexes after doing this for so long, and she had appeared in this world equipped with broadsword and armor. A few precise and powerful blows later, the monster was defeated, and Aster collapsed to her knees, clutching at her chest. She tore away her armor and the thick cotton shirt worn beneath, revealing the starstone between her breasts.

It glowed white-hot, almost too bright to see how the colors inside roiled and churned, as if the stone was trying to destroy itself from the inside out. Aster reached for it, just as quickly pulling her hand away with a grunt of pain. She couldn't usually feel the heat of the starstone—or, more accurately, it usually only produced heat during a flicker, and just for a second. It wasn't supposed to stay burning. Her hair, loose from its braid after removing her equipment, also remained alight. Tempest, coloring gone from mid-day bright to dark and damp in her distress, watched from her bubble, her apparition having dissipated with the flicker. She ached to do something, anything but stand there and watch the woman she cared for suffer.

"Tempest," Aster had rasped, and all hesitance the goddess had held about joining her companion in her time of strife dissolved. Her apparition was at Aster's side in the same heartbeat, kneeling in a rather ungodly fashion, hands reaching for Aster, despite the fact that they couldn't touch her like this.

"Aster," she breathed. "Are you alright? Does it hurt?" It was only when the elf turned her flat golden gaze on them that they realized where the elf's thoughts were.

"That wasn't me," Tempest said. She made to grasp at Aster again, frustrated that they couldn't clasp the woman's hands as she wanted, in comfort, in supplication. The floor beneath them puddled with their own rainwater. She half-worried about getting Aster wet until she remembered they were still planes apart, in actuality. "That wasn't me, Az. I swear it. I vowed never to use your magic without your telling me ever again, and I have honored that. It wasn't me."

Their heart—or whatever approximation of a heart a goddess would have—beat wildly as Aster stared at her, searching for any sign of mischief, deceit. She softened then, satisfied with what she saw. 

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. It wasn't you. But then—" she started, cut off by what seemed to be another bout of pain radiating from the starstone, curling up upon herself with a cry that broke Tempest's heart all over again. "But then," she soldiered on, each word an unimaginable weight on her tongue, "What in the hells was that?"

Tempest confessed her theories, apologizing for waiting until then to share them. Aster took it all in, her admonishments about Tempest's lack of transparency seriously dampened by the pain she was in. When Tempest was done, Aster drummed her fingers against her breastbone, thinking. 

"Do you think that resistance is your hold on the star's magic failing?" Aster asked at last, voicing Tempest's biggest fear

Tempest nodded. "I do."

"Am I going to die, then?"

A spike of fear went through Tempest. "Of course not!" she cried, almost outraged. Static crackled along her garland of cloudlets. "Why would you think that?"

Aster smiled wryly, weakly. "Well. The star acting of its own volition and nearly killing me is what got me into this mess in the first place. You trapping it in the stone and taking control is what's kept me alive since then. If you can't keep it under control anymore—"

"I'll find a way to control it," Tempest interrupted. Her voice was hard but brittle, glass-like. "You're not going to die."

The elf seemed concerningly blasé about this whole thing. "Am I not on borrowed time anyway? Maybe I was meant to die. Maybe the planes are righting a long-term imbalance."

Tempest ignored her. "You're not going to die," she repeated. They reached once more for Aster and, growing truly frustrated, slammed her fists against the floor. “Aster. I need you to flicker one more time.”

Aster was hardly the picture of health at the moment, but the shade paler her skin managed had Tempest considering flickering the elf where they needed her to be, consent be damned. “Tem,” she croaked, “I don’t think—”

“Just once more,” Tempest pleaded. “To me. I can’t take care of you from here, and you’re not safe here. Wait long enough, and another monster will appear. Let me bring you to me so I can fix this.”

Aster’s eyes searched her own once more, hesitating, but she nodded. “Alright.”

Tempest closed their eyes, and she could see the glittering string that connected her to Aster’s starstone. They reached out, plucking it like the string of an instrument, and when she opened their eyes, they were back in her bubble—her home—her prison.

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The bubble took the form now of a small, modest apartment: there was a bed against the far wall, a big pot of soup in the corner at the foot of the bed, a door off to the side with a small bathroom, and a wall full of bookshelves, crammed with tomes and scrolls and books and tablets. It didn't usually look this way. Tempest's one privilege in being cast off into a bubble dimension just spacious enough for comfortable pacing was that she had full control of its appearance and contents. It almost made up for the fact that she hadn't stepped on real grass or breathed actual fresh air in millennia. Almost.

Aster screamed, and Tempest caught her as the flicker ripped through her. They scooped the elf up in their arms with ease, as if she weren’t five inches taller than them and built purely of gangly limbs and muscle. The goddess had at least gotten her rain under control, though she expected they still felt a bit damp. They shushed the elf consolingly as she keened, writhing in pain. She was hot in Tempest’s arms—the heat of the starstone was burning her up.

"Hush now, my love," she soothed, taking selfish pleasure in the feeling of Aster's weight in her arms. Aster hadn’t been to Tempest’s bubble since she first Woke Up, and had demanded to meet with the goddess—and before that, had only visited on that fateful day, against her will, where she made the mistake of placing her mortal life in the goddess’s hands. Obviously, the two of them weren’t quite on touching terms on either of those occasions. This was the first time Tempest had gotten to feel her, and Tempest couldn’t help but enjoy it despite the circumstances that had brought her here. A traitorous flash of iridescence danced across her, dark coloring notwithstanding. She hoped Aster didn’t see it—they didn’t want her to misconstrue their feelings. "Quiet now, starlight. I'll fix this. I've got you."

Depositing her on the bed, Tempest quickly dressed her down. They weren't sure how long they had until the star flickered on its own again, but had a vain hope that its powers would be harder to use in her prison dimension, designed to limit such things. It wasn’t foolproof—Aster had entered and left her domain before, of course, but Tempest thought she recalled the magic feeling more strained in the act way back then. They just hoped they could find a solution to this before the magic acted out again.

Having tucked Aster into the bedding and filled her with as much soup as could be managed, Tempest urged her to rest, turning to the shelves. She had conjured any and every text written past and future about star magic, and was determined to read as many of them as it took to come up with a plan. Tempest had acted on impulse when she had first trapped Aster's starheart, and that left her with damage she couldn't undo. Their only hope now was, if not to undo that damage, then transform it into something more manageable. Tempest stretched out her arms, eyes glowing. A handful of the books floated off the shelves, positioning themselves in the air around her, their pages shuffling as she scanned them with inhuman speed.

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"Tempest," Aster called. The goddess started, breaking out of their reverie. How long had she been going through these books? Hours? Days? She recalled cycling through her different colorings a few times, maybe, but they weren’t paying much attention to themselves. She had only made it through a fraction of what she could find, she needed—

"Tem," Aster called again, and Tempest let her current tomes drop in favor of rushing to the elf's side.

"I'm sorry," Tempest began, "I haven't found anything yet, I—"

Aster reached for Tempest's hand, cutting off the goddess's anxious monologue. "Come here, please. It's so hot, and you're so cool. Just for a moment. I can't stand it."

As much as it pained Tempest to spend a single moment not searching for a way to help Aster, it pained her more to deny her. Having already swapped one of her usual dramatic gowns for a simple chemise, she crawled into bed by Aster and was at once scooped into her arms. Aster buried her nose into the crown of Tempest's head, sighing deeply. Her legs tangled with the goddess's, and Tempest fought not to blush or go iridescent at the nearness of Aster's hands to places they had ached for her to touch—but not like this.

"Thank you," Aster whispered into Tempest's hair, nuzzling closer. In moments, Tempest could feel Aster's breathing slow, asleep. Taking care to move as little as possible, the goddess again summoned her tomes—fewer of them now, with her full field of vision obscured from where she lay—and began again to devour their contents. However, she was no match against the comfort of being held, the warmth of her friend's embrace, and days spent without sleep—even as a goddess. She had just enough awareness to soundlessly lower the tomes to the ground before sleep claimed her.

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It was her and the star, alone in a void. They had been here once before—then, the star had been a pinprick, practically harmless. Now it was bigger than her head, where it floated in the air before her. Its insides continued to writhe, serpentine, heaving against its confinement.

Trickster Goddess, said the star. Your hold on me weakens.

"It does," Tempest confirmed. Their cheeks were wet—she could feel tears streaming down her face where she touched her fingers to it. She was crying, but from her eyes only—her expression remained uncrumpled, and her voice unhitched.

You love her.

"I do," she whispered, and even in her anguish, she couldn’t help the iridescence dancing across her once more. "I can't lose her. I won't lose her."

Then free me, the star demanded.

"I don't know—"

You do. You know how. Petty Goddess, Deceitful Goddess, you molded me into this prison.

"Yes, I did, but I didn't—"

Mold another. Take me in your hands and mold another. Mold another, mold another, mold another, mold another, mold another mold another MOLDANOTHERMOLDANOTHERMOLDANOTHERMOLD—

Tempest seized the star, screaming in agony as it seared her hands in a way their hands had never been able to be seared. The vague egg shape of it shuddered and melted in her hands. When she closed her eyes, squeezing them shut against the light of it, they saw the star for who she was and felt fear.

"I cannot let you out as you want to be."

She will die.

"She won't. I can't make you what you are. But I can make you something new."

Be wary of the shape you give me, the star cautioned, and how could such a cold voice carry so much conceit, hatred, concern? If it does not fit, it will not last.

"I'll keep of you what I can," Tempest promised, "But you will be mine. You will be ours. Because I love her, and that means I have to have some love for you, too. You feel it too, don’t you? You love her. You would have let her die otherwise. She's nurtured you like a babe."

I am infinite. I do not need love. I do not need nurturing.

"You're not," Tempest said, smiling. "Not anymore." 

With a loving hand, a maternal hand, and iridescence glowing strong across her features, Tempest took the stars weeping form and gave it shape. The star was right—Tempest couldn't ignore the star's true form entirely. It's two proud, spiraling horns rising from its head. Its sheeplike nose and ears, contrasted by a mouth full of predator's teeth. The wicked talons tipping each of its fingers.  The long, tufted tail, whipping back and forth in anger, challenge, acceptance. The fur that grew fuller down ungulate legs, falling thick over cloven hooves.

But all of the beastly features aside, she was a human. Or a faun, really, resembling the half-human, half-goat creatures of Roman Mythology. And the hair atop her head and at the tip of her tail flowed and curled cloudlike like Tempest's own, and flickered with Tempest's loving iridescence. When her slit pupiled eyes opened and focused on Tempest's own, they were Aster's same brilliant gold. This star was alien, a parasite, an intruder. But now she was Aster's. She was Tempest's. Tempest took the star, the creature, the faun, the woman by her taloned hands, and she spoke the words as they came to her.

"I give you a new name, as I have given you a new form, for to speak your true name would be to release your true form. I name thee Eirys Tempestborn, Starheart of Aster Merryweather. From this day forward, you walk beside us. But be warned," cautioned Tempest. "Stray too far and too long from the starstone, and your form will dissipate. You will not be free—you will be destroyed, the pieces of you scattered into the cosmos. If you want to continue as you are, a facsimile of your true form or not, you must return to the starstone regularly."

Eirys looked down at her, then further down to their clasped hands. Seeing the way her talons dug into Tempest's skin, just shy of piercing, she flinched back, loosening her grip. Looking back up at Tempest, she smiled. Her eyes squinted, canines bared, and her grin filled Tempest with a warmth that rushed through her in a wave.

"Hello," Eirys said. She leaned down, arms coming around her maker in an embrace, and Tempest woke up.

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Tempest's back was distinctly sweaty where Aster lay against her. Tempest carefully rolled over in her arms, observing her. Her long furrowed brows had softened at last, and her skin felt cold and clammy in comparison to its prior inferno. She couldn’t see the starstone from where it hid beneath the covers, but her hair wasn’t glowing anymore, either. The fever, if that's what it could be called, had broken.

Tempest felt for Aster's magic, and didn't find it. They had passed over the reins—sort of. She gave the reins a mind of their own, really, so there was a risk of there being times when Aster’s power was still not her own. But with the incentive of the reins not being evaporated into nothingness so long as they stay in touch and cooperate, that shouldn’t happen any more frequently than necessary. Plus, she had a hunch that, in this new form, the star had gained a desire to be of help to its host.

Another imperfect solution. But she couldn't help but feel a wave of staggering relief over the fact that she didn't hold Aster's own power over her anymore. There was little she could do to level the scales between a mortal and a goddess. Cutting the puppet strings felt like a pretty good start to her, though.

Like she could feel the weight of Tempest’s gaze, Aster’s lashes fluttered then, opening slowly. She stared at the goddess for a long moment.

“How do you feel?” Tempest asked.

A slow smile took over Aster’s lips. “Alive. Cold. A little detached? What exactly did you do?”

Instead of answering, Tempest rose from the bed, stretching. She willed away the chemise she wore in favor of a long, silky gown, fading in color from a sunshine gold at the top to a pearly white to a dusky periwinkle where the length of it brushed the floor. Inspired a bit by their new friend, they supposed. 

Finally getting to her feet, she outstretched a hand to Aster. “Come see.”

As Aster took her hand, rising from the bed herself, Tempest’s bubble changed shape. Like they had just left one room for another, the two of them were now in an outdoor courtyard garden, lush with plants and insects, a modest pergola crawling with ivy in the center. 

Under the pergola stood a woman, a faun, with a cloud of curly opalescent hair floating down her shoulders and from the tip of her long, slender tail. The fur on her ears, her tail, and her legs faded from a silvery white into a dark periwinkle the further it got from the center of her, and seemed to glimmer with stars. The hard, keratin parts of her—the two spiraling horns spearing through her hair, the cloven hooves hidden beneath locks of fur, the sharp talons on her fingers—were a creamy yellow, deeper in color at their tips. When she turned to face them, Tempest could see her eyes, framed by pale lashes and brows, irises glowing golden even from this distance. And when she smiled, they could see her sharp teeth, in stark contrast with the delicate pink nose protruding almost muzzle-like above them.

She wore little that covered her limbs—almost like she knew that Aster would want to see all of the alien parts of her. A sleeveless blouse with a cheeky four-pointed star cutout over her chest, mirroring the location of Aster’s scar. Bloomer-like shorts, adorned with ribbons. Ribbons around her calves, too, like a dancer's shoes, but for adornment only. Tempest imagined the star wasn’t going to be wearing any shoes anytime soon, with those hooves.

The woman held out one of her hands to Aster as the two of them approached, and Aster took it, eyeing her warily. Closer now, and no longer blinded by starlight, Tempest could see that fine white hair covered the rest of her skin too, and that she was dotted in freckles from her thighs upward. There may have been more lower down, but the fur of her legs would have obscured them.

“My name is Eirys Tempestborn, Starheart of Aster Merryweather,” the woman said in a clear, bright voice, and Tempest felt not a little embarrassed about the drama of the title she had bestowed. “Though I believe we’ve met. I used to live in that little stone of yours, riiiiiight there,” Eirys continued, tapping Aster’s exposed starstone with the fore-talon of her free hand. Strangely, it rang, like a bell. “And I imagine I still do, part-time. Your goddess has bartered away her control over me in exchange for your life. I am at your disposal,” she said, bowing neatly. “Wherever you want to go, I am here to facilitate it. I hope you won't be offended if I go off on my own, though, now and again.”

Aster looked to Tempest, confused.

“The only way to stop the star from rioting was to give it more leeway,” Tempest explained quietly. “I couldn’t let her free—you two are too intertwined. It would have killed you for sure, ignoring the damage I could cause by unleashing a captive star upon the many planes. But you have more autonomy now than you’ve ever had: instead of having to go through me to use your magic, you just need Eirys to be touching you—or to be in your starstone, while she’s resting. Like a battery.”

“If I’m not near you, you can speak to me by touching your stone,” Eirys informed her, either ignoring or not noticing how Aster’s face had gone a bit stone-like as she tried to process her new relationship with her magic. “I’ll be able to hear anything you’re ‘thinking at me,’ so to speak. I shouldn’t always need to be near you—many of the worlds you go to bestow their own magic upon you that is separate from mine. But whenever you wanna go, give me a ring and take my hand.”

Eirys yawned then, and Tempest’s stomach reflexively jumped at the display of teeth. “On that note, I’m exhausted. I’ll be retiring for now. But I look forward to working with you,” Eirys said with a wink. 

The faun began to glow, and then burst into a cloud of glimmering stars. They funneled into Aster’s starstone, setting it alight with a comforting glow. She pressed a hand to it, like she was getting used to the feeling of it again, then began to drum her fingers against her breastbone.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Aster's body jerked with the pole in her hands, then heaved back, fighting the fish in the water. She and Tempest’s apparition were off the shore of one of their more frequently visited planes. Aster had flickered through a good dozen of them in a freedom-induced frenzy before settling here. Fishing had always helped Aster think. Tempest wasn’t surprised that she would have a lot on her mind.

It was a bit of a surprise to Tempest that they could still see Aster, as they had been able to when first capturing the elf's starheart. They had assumed it was a boon of the starstone she had made, to be able to watch Aster from the bubble or, as she had eventually learned how to do, join her as an apparition on whatever plane she occupied. Maybe it was. But she had been a little bit afraid that their connection to Aster would have been dashed with the cutting of the string between her and the magic. They couldn't—wouldn't—say if it was losing what little access to the world outside her bubble she feared most, or the one friend she had had since being imprisoned.

Yet, here she was. She wasn't sure how that made her feel, exactly. But it felt a little bit like hope.

Aster won the fight with the fish—a handsome red snapper—and cast her line again. “I kind of can’t believe that the biggest micromanager I know relinquished their control,” she said at last, partially joking.

“I wasn’t going to let you die,” Tempest said, not joking at all.

A quiet moment. “I know,” Aster replied softly, joining Tempest in her somber tone. The pair of them stared out into the ocean together, letting the gentle crash of waves fill the silence. The sun was starting to set, reflected in the fading warm glow of Tempest’s coloring. Aster would need to return to her home on this plane soon.

“What does this make us?”

Tempest almost didn’t catch Aster’s whispered question over the sound of waves—wouldn’t have, if she weren’t so painfully attuned to Aster after all these years.

“What?” they asked. “What do you mean?”

The fish weren’t biting anymore—maybe they could sense the agitation that Tempest could herself sense from Aster. The elf put the fishing rod away, turning towards the goddess. “What does this make us?” she asked again, crossing her arms. “You’ve been with me all this time because you had to be—you linked yourself to my magic, and even when you grew bored, you still had to hold onto me. You let me go. What does that make us?”

“Are you angry?” Tempest asked, getting a little angry herself. Lightning crackled across her visage. “I saved your life, and you’re angry? I thought you wanted to be free!” 

“I do!” Aster cried. Her cheeks were ever-so-slightly pink. “I did! I don’t know!” She turned away, braid whipping behind her.

Tempest sighed, storm bating, floating around Aster to see her face. Her eyes glimmered with tears. “Starlight. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Aster seemed reluctant to meet her gaze. She stared off again towards the ocean, and Tempest could just see the reflection of the waves in her unshed tears.“I don’t want you to leave me,” Aster finally whispered.

The goddess looked her over, concerned. Then she ruined it by snorting. Aster looked up, startled, her tears at odds with the helpless laughter coming from Tempest.

“I’m being serious!” Aster hissed. Her face flushed, starting with the apples of her cheeks and bleeding to the tips of her ears.

“That’s the funny part!” Tempest managed between laughs. She wiped away the tears in her eyes—not all of mirth. “Aster. Darling. Why would I ever leave you?”

Aster sputtered. “Wh—why wouldn’t you? Nothing is keeping you here!”

Tempest clucked, circling the elf in the air. “First off, you little fool, you forget I’m still imprisoned. And though my hold on your power is gone, my connection to you remains. You remain my one window to the outside world.”

“Ah,” Aster replied flatly, looking off to the side. Tempest realized they led with the wrong point first. She reached to grab Aster’s chin, forgetting once more the distance of planes between them. Aster humored her by returning her gaze. “Secondly,” She continued firmly, “I’d like to think that we’re friends, by now. I’m not wrong, am I?” 

Aster shook her head, but said nothing. She did sniff rather noisily, though.

“Exactly. And friends don’t abandon friends the minute they’re not bound together by forces of magic beyond comprehension.” Tempest smiled ruefully. “I’m here as long as you’ll have me, Az. So please, continue to have me.”

Golden eyes welled over once more with tears, and suddenly Aster was in front of her—really in front of her, in the bubble—and lunging for her. The elf’s arms wrapped tight around her back, and her face buried wetly into her neck. Tempest embraced her back just as roughly, holding tight as if she could ward off the sobs wracking the elf’s body from the outside. The two of them collapsed slowly to the floor, cool and liquid. The bubble was in its default appearance: a still, mirror-like floor that gave you the feeling like you were walking on water, and an empty sky. Deceptively endless, endlessly limited. But for the first time in a long time, Tempest felt like the world was at their fingertips. In a way, she was.

“I’m here, starlight,” Tempest murmured. She made no effort to dim her iridescence.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Eirys flickered away, leaving the two lovebirds to it. She was pretty sure Aster wouldn’t want to go anywhere for a while—and if she did, she knew how to reach the star.

She went back to the last plane Aster had been on. Curiously, she seemed to be in Aster’s place in the world, like the two of them were taking turns at filling in a missing role in a play. She had Aster’s items, Aster’s equipment, and Aster’s accumulated skills for that plane.

So, she took back out her rod, and began to fish. Aster was right, after all. It was good for when you wanted to think.

Eirys didn’t remember everything that happened leading up to her taking on the form she wore now. She knew Tempest had a big role in it, and she remembered more or less what she used to be—that is, a star trapped in Aster’s heart. She was glad that she wasn’t trapped anymore, that she wasn’t hurting the elf. Although the two had technically just met, she had known Aster for the elf’s whole life. She was fond of her.

But Eirys couldn’t shake the feeling that her skin felt too tight. She scratched idly at her scalp, where her horns grew from her head. It felt nice. Everything felt nice compared to feeling nothing at all. She thought getting hurt would probably feel nice for a while, too, until she got used to it.

Maybe that was just another thing to get used to, that tight skin feeling. She scratched her head again, and her tail swung behind her unbidden, reflecting her pleasure.