#hyrt

The finality of that catches Wyda by surprise, and she tilts her head in confusion. She stays quiet, though - she usually lets Hyrt do the talking, after all.

What is a soul? she asks.

Wyda blinks at the question. Thinks on it. "A soul is... a force. It's entangled aether, potential energies roiling together in controlled chaos."

A soul is a person, Wyda. It's who we are. More than our memories, more than our upbringing. It's the core of everyone's being. Hyrt grins, purple eye shining in the dark and, just for a moment, catching the sunlight. And like a body, it's the natural inclination of a soul to want to be whole.

The meaning of that particular phrase takes Wyda a little longer. "Like... stitching a person's finger back on, or using healing magic to seal wounds?"

Exactly! Gods, I love how clever we are.

Wyda snorts a laugh at that, standing up and wandering over to her window to peer outwards.

It's not her father outside.

She expected to see Eyhafryn making a table or a spear or perhaps a cupboard, but instead... Max is there, carving something delicate with a whittling knife. Humming a song that Wyda can only hear when she looks at her. The moment she looks back to Hyrt, it stops.

Honestly... I just want to be done with the lesson, and skip to the part where I tell you what's about to happen. No obfuscation, no internal monologues. Hyrt crosses her arms over her chest, looking away and clearing her throat. She seems...pained. The wall between our souls is all-but faded. With the tiniest push... it'll collapse completely.

...

...

"...oh."

...Yeah.

Wyda swallows down whatever she's feeling. She doesn't know how to explain the emotion in her chest right now. Grief, maybe? "W-what does that mean for you? For us?"

Hyrt sighs, the noise echoing through the room in a way Wyda's words aren't. You'll...be whole again.

"That isn't what I asked, and you know it."

I'm proud of you, did you know that? Hyrt says, in lieu of answering. I thought it would take another year or so for us to merge completely, but...you've surprised me. The walls break down faster when the soul recognises itself. And yours recognises me.

Hyrt walks through the sunlight again, peering past Wyda's shoulder to look out of the window. Whatever she sees out there makes her smile, and Wyda glances over her shoulder.

The humming starts again, but this time there's another voice singing over the tune. Victoria is reading a book, a pair of ridiculous sunglasses on her face and a hat covering her head from the harsh sunlight. She doesn't even seem to be aware that she's singing along.

I love you, Wyda. And I thought it would take longer for you to accept me, because... well.

"Because I don't." Wyda speaks the words out loud, and tears her gaze away from the scene outside again. The music stops the moment she looks away again; the unnerving impermanence of dreams.

No. Because you didn't. And that is why I'm proud of you.

Wyda feels a sob burn up through her throat, at the moment she least expected it. It sears through her, tears springing into her eyes as she reaches her hand to her face. "I'm not ready for you to go, Hyrt."

Oh, darling... Hyrt approaches, distorting and shifting ever more as she steps into the sunlight, until she's closed the gap between the two of them to almost nothing. She reaches up, her fingers brushing Wyda's cheeks as she wipes her tears away. Please don't be sad. Come now, this should be a joyous occasion!

Wyda just sniffles in reply. She can't find the words to explain.

I'm coming home, joining with your soul once more. So...I won't really be gone.

Hyrt smiles, so gently.

I'll be a part of you! And that is the best fate I could dream of.

Wyda swallows, and meets Hyrt's eye. She stares, until she feels able to speak. "...I love you."

Aye. You love you, and that is the greatest gift of all.

Wyda rolls her eyes, giggling despite herself. "Don't you twist my words around on me."

Then speak more clearly!

They stand there, in silence, for a while. Wyda isn't sure how long it is. It could be ten minutes, or it could be a bell or two. Time moves strangely in dreams, and she's in no rush to move.

Are you ready?

"...No. But... I don't really get a choice in the matter, do I?"

It's the natural inclination of the soul to want to be whole, she answers, soft and sweet.

"Some day, you'll learn that your clever-sounding answers aren't always as clever as you think they are."

Hyrt brushes her thumb over Wyda's cheek. I'll learn when you do.

Wyda rolls her eyes, laughing to herself. And, after a moment, she leans forwards until her forehead rests against Hyrt’s. "... Okay. I'm ready."

Then close your eyes.

She closes her eyes.

Breathe deep through your nose.

She breathes, slow and deep.

Let the air fill your lungs, then let it pass through your lips. Slower. Slower.

Her breathing slows.

Listen to my voice.

Listen to our heartbeat.

With every breath you grow lighter, and slip further…

She's shuddering, a cold sweat overtaking her as she climbs on to her bed. A few years ago she'd have killed for a bed this soft. she flops against it, curling in on herself, hands clutching her stomach.

Mm...no.

There's a forced levity to Hyrt's voice. A levity neither of them are feeling. Being flooded with astral-aspected aether after drinking the ashes of a minor saint is enough to ruin anyone's day; especially someone whose soul is somewhat corrupted by dark aether.

The answer is... with a great deal of fucking difficulty.

Wyda laughs. She can't help it.

The motion wracks her with more pain, nails digging into her arms as she tries to force breath into her lungs. The laughter is cathartic, even if it's agony.

"Touché."

The pain and the nausea come in waves. Flooding across her just infrequently enough for her to begin to think it's stopped, before the next flood hits. Beating past her defences every time, catching her off guard no matter how well she tried to remain vigilant.

It's easier to remain vigilant when you're capable of thinking in cognisant sentences; when half of your mind isn't in screaming agony.

"There is...another answer, you know." Wyda's words are a dull mumble, devoid of all the usual life and vibrancy she likes her provide.

Mm?

She concentrates on breathing. If she can get that part down, the rest will come in time. It has to. Even if she kind of wants to throw up again. "Aye. How does a shadow survive the noonday sun, Hyrt?"

If you're expecting an answer right now, you're going to be disappointed. Sorry. Wyda squeezes her eyes shut against the sharpness of the words, twisting the ring on her finger. It's fine. It's fine. She can handle this. It'll pass.

It only hurts because of what Xanadu did to her. This isn't anything about Hyrt. This is just the pain of being flooded with the wrong aether. It'll pass. This isn't Hyrt. The imbalance Hyrt caused isn't unhealthy; it doesn't harm her. She's only harmed when someone does this to her. The light hurts but the dark isn't a danger.

She keeps telling herself that, over and over. She knows she's lying to herself.

When the icepicks stop striking at her head like a particularly determined Ilsabardian mountain climber, Wyda forces herself to smirk. "By staying beneath its owner."

There's a moment of blissful, shocked silence, then Hyrt groans. Flirt when we're not dying, darling.