#kels writes

Corisande obliges, the rhythm of her hips picking up with the guidance of Y'shtola's hand, just long enough to provide something like relief to the ache building between her legs, to the need that pulsed throughout her whole body—just long enough for Y'shtola to believe she was finally headed toward that singularly desired release—and then she paused, her hips flush against Y'shtola's.

"Please." Her words are almost a whine, halfway to begging as she tugs at their hips again. The toy—a recent purchase from a shop in Solution Nine, to both their repeated satisfaction—draws a whimper from her as it shifts inside her. "Don't stop."

Corisande takes Y'shtola's hand and guides it over her head. They kiss her, mouth hot and open and so inviting Y'shtola rises helplessly into it, chasing the taste of them even as they kiss down her chest—all in a manner so agonizingly slow that their hips did not budge against Y'shtola's, not even when she bucked beneath them, desperate for the barest of friction. Resistance flares inside her at the implicit instruction, the desire to rebel, to assume some authority over her desperate state until it is Corisande panting against her neck, Corisande clutching frantically at her hips, both of them coming apart together—a spark that flickers and fades when they take her other hand, lace their fingers through hers and hold her hand gently against the bed.

Affection swells in her chest, and there's nothing left to do but to let Corisande set the pace. To let the words fall free and frantic from her lips as the pleas they are. Don't stop, Cori, please don't stop, begging with each slow shift of Corisande's hips. She slips her free hand under Y'shtola's thigh and lifts, spreading her legs wider and pressing in slow and deep. Corisande fucks into her tenderly, almost luxurious in the hazy humid heat that permeates the inn room, their bodies slick with sweat as they slide against each other, as Corisande stokes the tight coils of heat burning between her thighs. She repeats the words against Corisande's lips between kisses, between gasps drawn by the drag of her piercings against Corisande's chest and the brush of their body against her swollen clit, repeats them into her hair when she presses her lips to the valley between her breasts, when she takes her nipple in her mouth with the gentlest of tugs, tongue curling around the tightened bud.

You awoke to the sound of someone banging on your door. Looking over to the alarm clock on your dresser, you saw 2:00 AM in bright red letters staring back. The banging sounded again, “one second!” You shouted, voice groggy, before swinging your legs over and ripping the blankets off. 

Your limbs felt like jello as you trudged over to the door, ready to give whoever was on the other side, a piece of your mind. Finally pulling the door open, you were shocked to see.. “Simon?” 

Your neighbour from down the hall, you didn’t know what you would classify yourselves as. acquaintances at the very least. You’d smile at him every time you past, and he trusted you enough to keep an eye on his apartment when he was gone. 

It wasn’t unusual for Simon to be up this late. “Hi.” He was curt, but part of you wondered if he was okay. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, too much to be considered normal. His eyes seemed a little more sunk in. 

You stepped aside as you let him in. You could hear him muttering, but the only thing you caught was a low, “I shouldn’t be here” 

You could see him looking around, assessing your apartment for any chance of someone else being here. “Hey…” your voice cut through the silence, “are you okay? Do you want some tea?” You kept your voice soft, almost as if you were talking to a child, or a scared animal. 

Simon still startled, almost forgetting you were there. He turned to you, and nodded. Not offering anything else, you gave him a small smile and went to start making the tea exactly as he liked. 

You didn’t even hear him as he walked over to sit at your kitchen table. You could feel his eyes on you as you flitted around the kitchen. You turned around, tea in hand and jumped slightly seeing Simon closer than you initially thought he was. 

You let out a soft chuckle before walking over and setting the steaming mug in front of him. He grunted, as his hands closed around the cup. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” You asked, softly again so as not to startle him. 

Simon said nothing for a good minute, content in just letting the heat transfer from the mug to him.  “you’re scaring me.” You whispered, sitting down in the chair next to him. 

“I don’t know..” His voice wavered, almost like he was ready to cry.  

You had never known Simon to be big on emotion, naturally you pulled your chair closer, “What do you need? What can I do?” 

He shook his head, a mirthless laugh escaping, “You can’t do anything.” 

“Well, I want to help you.. how can I do that?” You settled a hand against his bicep. 

Simon looked over at your hand, “You’re far too… good.”  

You frowned, “what do you mean?”

Simon shook his head, and stood up. “Nothing. I apologize for waking you.. go back to bed.” His voice sounded monotonous, forced. His heavy footfalls echoed throughout the apartment as he started for the door. 

“Wait!” You called, running in front of the door before he could open it. “Don’t leave.” 

For the first time in the almost 30 minutes he had been there, amusement was written all over Simon’s face. “Go back to bed.” 

“No. Not if you’re just going to leave. What did you mean? You said I’m ‘good’ what does that mean?” 

“It means that I allowed Johnny to get into my head.” He shook his head trying to step around you. “I shouldn’t have come to you like this.”

You followed every movement he made in trying to escape. “I don’t mind. I enjoy your company… always. Who’s Johnny?” 

Simon huffed a laugh, “a… co-worker” He stopped, “Will you please move out of the way?”

“No. What did he say to get into your head?” 

“Nothing. You need to get to sleep.” 

“Si… There was a reason that you came here. What was it?” 

That seemed to stop him in his movements entirely. His brows caved inwards, almost like he was perplexed. “What are you doing to me…” he whispered. 

Now it was your turn to look confused, “what do you mean?” 

“You’re in my head. Constantly.” Simon stepped closer to you. 

His confession sent your head spinning. His proximity made you dizzy. It was a dangerous combination when you stepped closer to him, you practically fell into him. 

Simon chuckled, catching you by the top of your arm. 

“I…” your mouth felt like you were eating cotton, “what?” 

“I should go home…” he whispered, his hand flexed slightly gripping you where he held your arm. Like he thought you weren’t real. 

“Maybe I don’t want you to.” You kept your voice steady, though everything in you was screaming to allow his confession to melt you. 

He whispered your name, almost reverent in the execution of it, and you nearly snapped. His hand coasted down your body before settling on your waist. 

All time ceased to exist as you stared up at him, expectantly. 

In an instant, his hand fell away. “I’m so sorry…” he whispered, before stepping around you and walking out. And you let him. 

"He'd make a good clown," Corisande said, thoughtfully. That set Hilda and Joye off into another round of laughter while Y'shtola patted Corisande's knee, and then they were off. Y'shtola listened as they brought out stories from the rodeo, some involving people she had met during her time on the Haillenarte Ranch and others whose names she had heard called out over the speakers at the rodeo for this event or that, and some she had never heard of at all, which always prompted Joye to lay it out—he was so-and-so's cousin, she owns the little shop at the end of the street, he used to date Lainiaitte, you met her, right, Steph's sister? Corisande was everyone's advocate, unable to let a story end without reassuring her that the subject was fine or an excellent rider, really, it had just been an off day, a natural impulse which Y'shtola found sweet and which Hilda and Joye only sometimes agreed with.

Corisande's turn to buy a round came somewhere around the fifth story, and she pressed a kiss to Y'shtola's temple when she stood from the table, with a soft, "I'll be right back."

Y'shtola, pleasantly warm and still laughing from Joye's latest tipsy retelling, turned back to the table. Across from her, Joye spoke quietly into Hilda's ear. Hilda, with a look of exaggerated patience, shook her head, but whatever passed between them, Joye seemed to have already made up her mind. She faced Y'shtola, laced her fingers together on the table in front of her, and said, "We need to talk about your intentions."

Y'shtola's eyebrows rose. "My intentions? Joye, you've seen my work—"

"Corisande is sweet," Joye interrupted. "They're kind. The kindest person you will ever meet. They're our best friend, and we have to look out for them." She gestured between herself and Hilda, her body swaying a little unsteadily with the motion. Hilda gave a single, solemn nod in support, but wrinkled her nose with a silently mouthed "Sorry" when Y'shtola met her eyes.

"If you're just going to up and leave back to the city you came from, if you're gonna hurt her, you should end things sooner rather than later. There's people here who are just waiting for the chance to make her happy." Joye thrusted her chin in the direction of the bar, a gesture that made her wobble in her seat until Hilda reached out a hand to steady her.

Y'shtola did not need to look to know who she meant, but she followed the gesture anyway, her heart doing something strange and unwanted in her chest. Corisande stood there, of course, her hip pressed to the bar as she waited for their drinks, her long, curly hair cascading down her back, a red so deep it was almost purple in the dim light of the bar. She smiled up at the man beside her, who hand his hand lightly on her elbow as they talked.

Y'shtola had met Haurchefant once before, as she and Corisande walked the edge of the Haillenarte property together. He'd been shirtless at the time, wearing a bright smile as he called Corisande's name and forged a path toward them, his silver blue hair falling across brighter blue eyes. In his arms he carried a small calf, who looked at them with wet eyes as he explained how he had rescued it from a stretch of mud caused by the late summer rain. He set the calf down, wrapped carefully in what Y'shtola guessed to be his missing shirt, and revealed a broad, muscular chest, sweaty with exertion. She blinked as he pulled Corisande into a long hug, and then extended a hand to her. "Nice to meet you, Miss Rhul."

She shook his hand. "How do you know Corisande?"

"I used to work for his family," Corisande replied, beaming between the both of them. "My first job was with the Fortemps. Haurchefant is the one who taught me how to train the horses."

"You were always so good with them, you hardly needed any teaching, just someone to get you started." Haurchefant smiled fondly down at Corisande—how tall was he, that he was taller than even them? He reminded Y'shtola of the men on the cover of the old romance novels Tataru liked to read—barrel chested, broad shouldered, inexplicably wandering shirtless through a field. They chatted for a few minutes more, about the work Y'shtola was doing for the Haillenartes and how Haurchefant's brothers were doing and whether Corisande thought they might get any more rain, and then Haurchefant scooped up his wet-eyed calf and departed with a smile and a wave.

They continued their path along the border of the property. Y'shtola, her curiosity growing in Haurchefant's absence, asked, "Do you know each other well?"

"Pretty well," Corisande said, with a shrug. "We dated for a few months, years ago."

"Dated?" Y'shtola repeated in surprise. She glanced at Corisande, but they were watching the path ahead of them. "What happened?"

"Nothing, really. I thought we were better off as friends, and Haurchefant agreed," Corisande replied. She reached out, linking her fingers with Y'shtola's, and Y'shtola let the subject go, though she still burned with questions.

Now, watching them together, Y'shtola was not so sure Corisande's estimation of Haurchefant's feelings was correct. Jealousy rippled through her at the way he smiled at them, the way he touched them, the way they leaned toward him when they laughed.

"If you don't plan on staying, you should step out of the way," Joye finished.

Y'shtola forced herself to look away from Corisande. Her initial confusion was fading, curdling alongside her jealousy into a growing annoyance. "Corisande and I know exactly where we stand," she said, her eyes narrowed. It suddenly felt too hot in the bar, too loud, the other patrons too close. What business was it of theirs, anyway? "She knows I'm leaving when my work is done."

Joye sighed, loud even in the noisy bar, and gave Hilda an urgent, wide-eyed look, jerking her head meaningfully in Y'shtola's direction. Y'shtola waited while Hilda glanced reluctantly between her girlfriend and her, and then a look of relief passed over her features. "Corisande!"

"Here you are," Corisande said pleasantly as they passed out their drinks. Hilda reached eagerly for hers and for Joye's, pulling it across the table and shoving it into her hands.

"I think I saw Steph a minute ago," she said, gripping Joye's arm as she stood. Joye frowned, but Hilda tugged on her arm until she stood with her. "We'd better go say hi."

Corisande smiled bemusedly after them as they walked away. She glanced down at Y'shtola as she passed her drink her way. "Is everything all right?"

"It's nothing to worry about," Y'shtola replied, as Joye and Hilda disappeared into the crowd. She met Corisande's gaze, and let the sweet warmth of it tide away her annoyance. "Joye was just providing me with a few words of advice."

"Advice about what?"

"You," Y'shtola answered honestly, and Corisande scrunched her nose in a way that could only be called adorable.

"I'm sorry," they said, draping their arms around Y'shtola and pulling her close. "They're too protective, sometimes. What did she say?"

Y'shtola leaned into her, easing into the warmth of their body against hers. "Don't apologize. She gave me some things to think about, is all," she replied, and pulled them down by the collar for a kiss.

—

Corisande drove them back to Y'shtola's motel room, one hand on the steering wheel, the other entwined with Y'shtola's on the seat between them. Y'shtola watched the night pass by outside the window, the warm green and browns of the day gone blue in the dark, limned in silver by the moon. They were halfway to the motel when Corisande said, softly, "What are you thinking about?"

Y'shtola considered the question. In truth, her thoughts had drifted to Haurchefant, in all his romance hero glory, and what a good story it would make—the kind, loyal friend pining for the sweet ranch hand everyone loved, who was sleeping with a woman who did not belong here while he waited in the wings, ready to swoop in and make them happy the moment she broke their heart. Joye would probably love telling that across the table, once Y'shtola was gone.

She glanced at Corisande, whose eyes were still on the road, and wondered what she would say in her defense, when the story was told.

"I've been considering the advice Joye gave me," she said. "She thinks I ought to end things with you, so you can find someone who will make you happy. Someone from here."

Corisande was silent for a long time, but their silences were not unfamiliar to her. She waited, engaged in her own silent battle of wills against the memory of the way they had beamed at Haurchefant out in the field in that day, until Corisande let out a long, slow sigh.

"She meant Haurchefant." They sounded resigned as they said his name, as if they were only just holding back another sigh.

"Yes, I gathered that much," Y'shtola said. She thought again of how comfortable they had looked together at the bar, how easily he had touched them. Of their laugh, which she couldn't have possibly heard at that distance, but which the sight of had warmed her even as jealousy simmered in her chest. "Maybe she has a point."

Corisande glanced at Y'shtola, her brow furrowed into a slight frown. It surprised Y'shtola to find that their dismay thrilled her. She hadn't really known, until now, how desperately she'd hoped that Joye was wrong about Corisande and Haurchefant.

They did not speak the rest of the way back to the motel, though on the seat between them, Corisande's thumb smoothed slow, soft circles across the back of her hand. When they pulled into the parking space before Y'shtola's door without another word, she expected the matter had been dropped completely. But Corisande turned off the truck and, still holding her hand, said, "Joye cares about me. She only wants what's best for me, but she and the others…they don't know what I want. Haurchefant is a great friend, but that is all he is. I'm happy with the way things are between you and me."

"Well," Y'shtola said, her heart skipping slightly, and satisfaction curling around it. "As long as you're happy."

Corisande finally turned to look at her, and her small smile was a beacon for Y'shtola's affection. It welled within her, warm and sweet, and on the current of that stronger feeling, the one she could not help but be thrilled by—though she dreaded to name it, because it did not matter. She was leaving, sooner rather than later, and when she did, however accustomed she had grown to their presence, however much she desired their touch, their warmth at her side, their sweet smile in her direction and the hours-long conversations they had, curious and intelligent, however Corisande made her feel when they held her hand, it would all be over when she left. And then she'd be on to the next thing, the next assignment, and there'd be no time or need for anything else.

They helped her out of the truck and then they were hardly through Y'shtola's door before they kissed her, their hands sliding beneath their own jacket that Y'shtola wore, peeling it from her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. They tasted slightly of vanilla, from the soda they had sipped all night long, and she threaded her hands through their hair, pulling them close and drinking them in.

They tugged off boots and discarded clothes, and fell into bed together. Y'shtola loved the shape of Corisande beneath her hands. She loved the strength of their body, belied by the softness of it. She loved their long, slender frame, the strong muscles of their thighs and the way they flexed when pressed flush between hers. She loved to trace from the curve of their hip across the rise of their bottom, and that she could cup their breast in the palm of her hand. She relished in trailing her lips over the vining, flowering ink beneath their breasts; in dragging her tongue along the inside of their thigh, drawing sweet little sighs and gasps. She loved the long arms that wrapped around her, and the slim fingers that dipped inside her. She loved to spend all day beside them in the sun and come back to her motel, hot and earth-scented, and bury herself in their touch.

All that, at least, she could admit.

—

When Y'shtola woke, the sky was still dark. Corisande shifted, starting to extricate herself from Y'shtola and the comforter, but Y'shtola, not yet ready to leave the warmth of their embrace, shifted along with her, and wrapped her arm around her waist to hold her close. The light huff of Corisande's laugh brushed across her cheek. "It's too early to get out of bed."

"I didn't mean to wake you." Corisande brushed Y'shtola's hair gently out of her eyes, and cupped her cheek. "I have to get back to the ranch."

"Take the day off," she murmured, tucking her nose into the curve of their neck. She pressed a kiss there, just to make her point.

"You know that I can't," Corisande said, with a gently amused laugh, but they slipped their arm around her waist anyway, their hand running soothingly up and down her back. They laid together, entwined in each other's warmth, and Y'shtola had almost drifted off again when they said, "We could stay at my place, sometimes, instead of always coming back here."

Corisande lived in a small house on the Haillenarte property, set far enough from the main house so as to have total privacy, a benefit provided to her by Stephanivien when he'd asked her to work for him. It was a warm and homey place, with a blooming flower garden out front and a small pond nearby, both of which Corisande tended to themself. Y'shtola had visited a few times, mostly when Corisande needed a change of clothes or to pick up a pair of gloves she had forgotten, and once or twice they'd had a picnic by the pond for lunch. She'd been surprised to see just how large of a library Corisande had curated, given the size of the house, but her bookshelves were so full she had taken to stacking books in haphazard piles around the house, and she often brought her one or two she thought she might enjoy.

"We could sleep in. I could make you breakfast, and bring it to you still in bed. And," Corisande added, triumph in their voice for their next argument, "you would be closer to the ranch, so you could work longer, if you wanted."

Y'shtola imagined all of it. Waking up in their bed with the sun streaming through the windows, pulling on one of their shirts and sitting atop their counter in their warm yellow kitchen, watching them make breakfast, losing herself amongst the stacks of their books and being brought back by their arms around her. She imagined coming home with them after a day in the field and cleaning themselves up together, imagined drinking wine and fielding all of Corisande's questions about her work, and returning her own questions about the subjects Corisande studied before she started working for the ranch, over the dinner they kept asking to cook for her. She imagined falling asleep in a bed that she might grow to think of as theirs.

A pit bloomed inside her, cold and heavy underneath her warm imaginings. She pulled back, enough to see their face, their soft cheek wrinkled against the pillow and the ends of their curly bangs brushing their long eyelashes. They smiled at her, sweet, and Y'shtola said, "You know I won't be here much longer, right?"

Corisande's smile faded. Y'shtola felt a sharp prick of guilt at the loss of it, but before she could say anything else, they leaned forward, pressing their soft lips to hers, warm and open. Y'shtola let her eyes fall closed, let Corisande shift her onto her back as the kiss deepened, enjoying their warm weight on top of her. But the unanswered question still weighed heavy in the back of her mind, and when Corisande shifted her attention to the crook of her neck, she said, somewhat breathlessly, "Corisande—"

"I know," they said. They paused, their forehead resting against her chest, their breath ghosting over her skin. Y'shtola was just slipping her hand into their hair when they pushed themself up, twisting away from her and climbing out of bed. Y'shtola, immediately missing the warmth of her, pulled the comforter close, settling beneath it as she watched her move about the room. She picked up a silk scrunchie from the bedside table, and Y'shtola's eyes tracked the lift of her breasts as she put her hair up. They picked through the clothes on the floor, searching for their own amidst the mess. "I need to shower. Do you want to join me?"

She shouldn't. Despite being warm and comfortable beneath the comforter, their evasiveness had worked a new worry to the forefront of her mind. Corisande insisted she was happy, but maybe Joye had been right—maybe she ought to start distancing herself now, for their sake.

Corisande hurried toward her, pulling the knife from their belt as they moved. Before they could reach her, Y'shtola drove her arm down hard, smashing the undead's head against the fence. Her arm free, she stepped away from the fence, but only made it a step before she went down hard, falling on hands and knees, bandages and rolls of gauze spilling from her bag, tin cans rolling away from her across the pavement. The undead with the broken legs mashed its face against the fence, it's arm snaking through the posts just above the ground to wrap its hand around her ankle. Y'shtola kicked blindly out behind her, but her foot only connected with the gate with a resounding clang that set Corisande's teeth on edge. She reached Y'shtola's side and drove her knife through the undead's eye.

"Thank you," Y'shtola said, distractedly, her hand roaming over the sidewalk. "Do you see my glasses any—"

"There's no time," Corisande said, grasping Y'shtola's hand and pulling her to her feet. Across the street, the ambling undead had taken a sharp turn in their direction, shuffling toward the noise. It wouldn't be long before there were more, drawn by the clamor. "We have to get out of here."

Y'shtola acquiesced, and Corisande tugged her quickly down the street, eyes scanning their surroundings for any more threats. When she felt they had gone far enough, she swung them to the right, carefully guiding Y'shtola up a set of porch steps. She turned the knob and to her immense relief, the front door swung open.

She ushered Y'shtola inside, only releasing her hand when the door had been quietly closed behind them. "Stay here," Corisande said. Y'shtola nodded, though her lips pursed with her annoyance.

Corisande drew their gun from its holster and moved quickly through the house, listening carefully around corners before ducking into new rooms. The house was in decent shape—the doors and windows were still shut and intact, the furniture was mostly upright save for a few overturned chairs, and there weren't, as far as they could tell, any bodies, dead or undead. Several dresser drawers were thrown open, clothes spilling haphazardly out, and a thick layer of dust had settled on the furniture. Whoever had lived here had left in a hurry, and seemingly no one had been here since.

She lowered her gun, and wound her way back to Y'shtola. "It's clear. Are you all right?"

Y'shtola, her back pressed to the front door, relaxed, her shoulders lowering minutely as she nodded. "It was only a few scrapes, fortunately. And this." She held up her arm, displaying a long tear in her sleeve. "A simple repair, if I had my glasses."

Corisande set her backpack on the floor, and knelt down to rifle threw it. Y'shtola said, sharply, "You can't mean to go back out there."

"You need your glasses." Their fingers closed around the box of bullets.

"Not enough to risk your life."

"We need those supplies." Corisande loaded her revolver as she spoke. Back at their make-shift home, they were short-handed and short-supplied. They needed all the supplies they could get their hands on. "And you need your glasses. They don't give out prescriptions the way they used to."

That got a short laugh out of Y'shtola, and Corisande smiled as she stood. "I can handle it, Shtola."

"I know you can," she said, unhappily. "How many of them are there now?"

Corisande approached the window by the front door and pulled back the curtain just enough to peek down the street. All the noise they had made had drawn a crowd of undead, milling about the sidewalk where the supplies were still strewn. It could have been worse—the mob of undead they had been running from had yet to show up again. "There's a few."

"Corisande," Y'shtola sighed, her tone tinged with exasperation. "How many are there?"

"Half a dozen," Corisande answered, briefly shamed. "A little more, maybe."

Y'shtola nodded. "Draw some of them off first, if you can."

She met Corisande's gaze, her sea-foam eyes bright. This close, Corisande could see each freckle that fell across the bridge of her nose, down across her cheeks. She had the sudden urge to sweep her thumb across them, to smooth the divot in her furrowed brow. How long had they known each other now? It seemed impossible that Corisande had ever survived the end of the world without Y'shtola at her side. "I will."

Y'shtola tugged on the end of Corisande's braid, running the strands between forefinger and thumb. "Shoot straight."

Corisande smiled, and reached for Y'shtola's hand. Their thumb passed quickly over her knuckles, the motion grounding them, and then they released her, picked up her bag, and headed for the door.

Outside, Corisande didn't waste any time. Y'shtola's bag slung across her body, she moved quickly and quietly down the street, and only when she was twenty yards out did she raise her gun, aiming even as she moved closer. She picked the closest few off—one, two, three, easy, their bodies meeting the pavement with dull, wet thuds. Once, she would have stopped—would have had to stop, to calm the churn of her stomach. On a better day, she might have still had time to pause, to kneel at their side and say, You were a person, once. I know. I'm sorry.

She put another down, bullet right between its sunken eyes, stepping over it as it fell before her. The echoes of the gunshots had drawn attention, and the once aimlessly milling undead turn toward her, their mindless groaning growing louder as they shambled in her direction. She traded one weapon for another, holstering her gun and drawing her knife. She drove it through one undead's temple, shoving it aside, then another, putting her whole upper body into the stubborn push and pull through skull, gripping the handle tightly against the sick, slick slide of the blade through brain. She kicked out, foot connecting with the brittle chest of one undead who strayed too close, and it stumbled backwards. She kicked again, boot meeting the back of its knee and forcing it to the ground, and pushed her knife through the base of its skull.

They whirled around, throwing up their forearm to block yet another undead's advance, their fingers curling in the tattered remains of its shirt and driving it back, pinning it against a car parked haphazardly in the street. They plunged their knife into its skull, and the now dead undead gets its revenge—she's pushed it too far, or at the wrong angle, and the knife sticks. Before she can try to work it free, the rasp of an undead sounded at her side, the only warning they get before it stumbled into them. They twisted away from its grip, their feet slipping over fallen bodies, over splashes of blood and the spill of guts, and then they go down, the undead falling after them.

She landed on her back, the solid ground forcing the air from her lungs. The undead landed on top of her, and she shoved her arm under its jaw just before it's teeth snapped in her face. She breathed deeply, trying to catch her breath, and immediately regretted it when the rotten stench nearly overwhelmed her. She tried to get a leg up—if she could just reach her boot—

Their fingers closed over the handle of their knife, and in one motion they levered the blade and brought it down on the undead's head. It stilled, so heavy on top of them for a thing decomposing, and they held their breath until they could withdraw their knife and toss the body to the side. Another undead shuffled toward her, drawn by the commotion, and Corisande sighed. They sat up slowly, withdrew their revolver, and fired, relieved when it went down without a fuss.

She glanced over her shoulder, back toward the house she had left Y'shtola in, and thought, I'm glad she couldn't see me make a mess of that.

They holstered their gun again and pushed themself to their feet. The supplies were exactly where they had left them when they had run, a little dirtier than before but nothing that could not be salvaged. They were gathering them up, tossing them into Y'shtola's bag to be sorted later, when their eye was caught by a glint of light. There, in the grass between two iron fence posts, sat Y'shtola's glasses, miraculously unscathed. Corisande scooped them up gently, folding one arm down the front of her shirt for safe keeping.

Outside the house, they wiped their knife—pulled forcefully from the undead's skull—on the grass, and tucked it back into their belt. The curtain at the window beside the door twitched as they climbed the porch stairs, and the door swung open before they had a chance to knock. Not the safest of practices, but they were just as eager to be inside as Y'shtola was to usher them in.

"You're alright," Y'shtola said, before the door had even closed. It was more demand than question, her desire spoken as if it were already true, and Corisande obliged the order, holding up her hands with a smile.

"I'm fine," she said. Y'shtola's gaze flicked to her hands, an instinctual scan for injuries, and even with her poor vision she must have decided she was telling the truth, relief breaking across her face in the form of a small smile. "I found your glasses."

They lifted the glasses from their shirt and stepped forward, unfolding the arms and slipping them gently onto Y'shtola's nose. She blinked, her eyes adjusting before they focused on Corisande. The warmth in her gaze confirmed what they had already known—it had been worth it, risking their life, just to see Y'shtola smile.

Corisande cupped her cheek, let her thumb sweep across Y'shtola's freckles. The intense struggle of only a few minutes ago was already forgotten, replaced by a warmth in her chest, a tender swoop in her belly. Y'shtola rose on her toes just as Corisande bent to meet her.

They kissed, lips moving thoughtlessly and perfectly against each other. Y'shtola's hand curled in the fabric of Corisande's coat, pulling her in, and Corisande melted into the kiss, arms sliding around Y'shtola's waist, pressing herself closer until there was no distance between them. They kissed until they were breathless, until Corisande wanted to discard her coat and lift Y'shtola into her arms, until Y'shtola pulled back, the fingertips of one hand pressed into Corisande's chest.

"We have work to do," Y'shtola said, her words satisfyingly uneven. She gripped the strap of her bag, surprising them by using it to pull them in for another kiss, almost as if she could not help it. When they parted again, she lifted the bag over Corisande's head and turned, heading for the dining room. "I'll take inventory of what we already have. You see what you can turn up around the house."

By all accounts, Eirini was a good baby. A sweet face and sweeter demeanor, their father's blue eyes and Corisande's dark red hair. It was not personal when Y'shtola passed her babysitting duties on to another, usually Thancred or F'lhammin, sometimes to Alisaie, who seemed equally as perplexed as she did with how to entertain a baby—more than once Y'shtola walked in to find Eirini propped up with pillows on the sofa, enraptured while Alisaie demonstrated various moves with her rapier. Y'shtola cared about Eirini's safety, and their happiness, as well as Corisande's. Her life was simply not conducive to tending to a child.

They were loud in quiet libraries, and had so many needs that distracted from research and reading, and were still too young to provide any interesting conversation. They were, in short, out of the realm of both Y'shtola's interests and her comfort.

Which was why she had protested when Thancred had all but thrusted a giggling Eirini into her arms. She'd tried to hand them back, but Thancred had patted her on the shoulder and said, before disappearing through the door, "Don't wake Corisande unless you really cannot handle it."

An irritating parting statement, but it had the desired effect. She could handle the baby, and allow Corisande their much needed rest.

Or so she had thought.

Eirini was quiet for the first bell or so, content to lie on their soft blanket and play with the toys that dangled over them, babbling to themself while Y'shtola read. Every so often Y'shtola reminded herself to check on them, ensuring they had not rolled away to some corner of the Rising Stones library or stuck anything in their mouth besides their own fingers and toes. Just as she was beginning to think the evening would go well—or rather, that the baby was not as intrusive a presence on her research as she had expected—Eirini began to cry.

Y'shtola did not know how such a small, purportedly sweet, being made such a big, awful sound. It pulled her sharply out of her reading, her tail flicking first with the irritation of distraction and then, as she realized the source of the cry, with alarm.

She stood quickly, hovering over the baby. "Eirini, please," she said, as gently as she could, having neither desire nor ability for the babyish affect the others employed when speaking to them. "This is a library."

Eirini, unreasonable, continued to cry. Y'shtola tried to distract them with their toys, but they turned their head away, their tiny feet kicking as they wailed. Desperate, Y'shtola scooped them into her arms. She cradled them against her chest, one hand supporting their head as she had often seen Corisande do, and for a moment Eirini seemed mollified. But Y'shtola only had time for a sigh of relief before Eirini's cries started up again.

Y'shtola thought desperately of what she had seen the others do. She rocked Eirini in her arms, walked slowly around the room, rubbed their back as soothingly as she could, all to no avail. Finally, desperation still climbing, Y'shtola closed her eyes and called upon her last resort.

"'Tis alright, baby Eirini," she cooed at them, pitching her voice higher than it had ever been before. It was not a particularly comforting sound to her own ears, but perhaps it would be to a baby's. "Everything is well, baby Eirini."

Baby Eirini wailed louder, their cries reaching a volume Y'shtola had not before known their tiny baby lungs could achieve. She winced—perhaps she ought to wake Corisande, for both her and the baby's sake. Mayhap Eirini was hungry, or mayhap they sensed Y'shtola's deep desire to be freed from her care duties and felt the same. Either way, only Corisande could rectify the situation.

Still, she hesitated. Not only because Corisande deserved the rest—which she, of all of them, most certainly did—but because she could hardly let Thancred's challenge go unanswered. She was certainly capable of taking care of Eirini for a few hours. She could prove it.

Y'shtola bounced Eirini gently in her arms, casting around in her memories for the ways she had soothed herself as a child—when her mother was too ill to care for her, or when her younger sisters were too loud, or when Matoya delivered a particularly harsh lecture. She closed her eyes, gathering the last of her will, and fervently hoped it would work. She did not know what she would do if it did not.

"The six elements are manifest in all things great and small," she began, still bouncing Eirini in her arms as she walked about the room. "Their polarity derives from the Astral heavens above and the Umbral depths below."

Her words were calm and steady, coming to mind with ease as she continued reciting basic facts of aether and the natural world. It was a speech she was well practiced in, having been called upon to explain the very subject of her thesis often enough. The act had a calming effect on her still, giving her something to focus on besides the baby's cries.

To her immense relief, the words seemed to have a calming effect on Eirini, as well. By the time Y'shtola had finished explaining the six aspected elements of aether, Eirini's cries had petered off into some kind of babyish gurgling. She looked down at Eirini, unable to make out much of anything—they were still something of a featureless blob in Y'shtola's eyes—but they seemed as happy as they had before all the crying began.

"You enjoyed that, hm?" Y'shtola asked them, an idea forming in her mind. She carried Eirini over to the desk, propping them in her lap as she sat and flipped open one of the tomes scattered across the surface. "Perhaps we will make a scholar of you yet."

She read to Eirini from the page, an introduction to the use of ambient aether in black and white magic, which she had been brushing up on in order to better instruct Corisande in conjury. Eirini sat quietly in her lap, one small hand resting on the corner of the book, their round ears wiggling in the bottom of Y'shtola's vision. Occasionally they babbled softly, happy, excitable noises that Y'shtola was surprised to find amused her.

When their small hand curled around Y'shtola's finger, she did not know what to do with the new fondness that warmed her. Eirini truly was a sweet baby as everyone said, when they were not crying. When Y'shtola was not avoiding her caretaking duties. When she was not lamenting all the ways Eirini's mere existence changed things for her and Corisande.

She was just finishing the second page when the door to the library opened. Corisande made their way to the desk and seated themself on the edge, their loose hair flowing over their shoulder as they looked down at Y'shtola and the baby.

"I should have known this is how you would spend your time with them," Corisande said, and Y'shtola's heart lifted to hear the familiar teasing in their voice. "Ought I to leave them with you then? You seem to be enjoying yourselves."

"Don't you dare," Y'shtola said flatly, though she had to admit to herself that she did not mind—might even enjoy—reading to Eirini.

Corisande laughed quietly, and reached for Eirini. They must have fallen asleep while Y'shtola read, because they hardly moved while Y'shtola handed them over, settling them gently in Corisande's arms.

"Thank you for watching them," Corisande said sincerely, reaching with one hand to take Y'shtola's hand in hers. "I hope they were not too much trouble—I know you have work to do."

The genuine appreciation in Corisande's voice made Y'shtola glad she had not woken them up before. "The evening was not entirely peaceful," Y'shtola admitted. "But I believe we came to a fruitful mutual understanding."

Corisande smiled, the small and gentle smile that ever made Y'shtola's heart ache. "They are not the best student now," they said lightly, shifting their gaze to the still sleeping Eirini. "But mayhap when they are older…"

Corisande trailed off, and Y'shtola felt the hope in their voice as a weight in her chest, familiar from all the things she told herself. Mayhap when Eirini was older, when they did not need so much looking after, when Corisande and Y'shtola had more time…

"I am certain they will make an excellent student," Y'shtola said, squeezing Corisande's hand, and was rewarded with Corisande's smile turned upon her once more. "They already appear to have inherited your tastes in subject matter—if they have even half your intellect, there is much I will be able to teach them."

Corisande beamed down at her. "They should be so lucky to study under Master Y'shtola," they said warmly. "As for inheriting my interests—you know what that means, do you not? You are going to be their favorite of the Scions. They will probably enjoy your company more than my own."

Y'shtola could only blink in response, her eyes growing wide and her cheeks warming. Corisande was always so open with her affection, but the kind words never failed to warm Y'shtola. Even though it hurt, sometimes, that the tenor of those affections did not match her own—or worse, when she thought mayhap they did match her own, when Corisande held her hand or brushed her hair back as she spoke, their head bent close to hers, but nothing ever seemed to come of it.

She was saved from forming a response by Eirini. They stirred in the crook of Corisande's arm, which was all the warning they gave before they began to cry. Corisande winced, and pulled her hand out of Y'shtola's to stroke Eirini's cheek, speaking softly to them as she did.

"I am sure you have had enough of this for one night," Corisande said, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the baby's cries. "We will leave you to your books—they must be hungry, anyway."

Y'shtola wanted to protest, to say that Corisande should stay, that she could feed the baby here while Y'shtola worked, and after they could make tea and discuss Y'shtola's work, like they used to do. But she could not get the words out, not when Corisande was already standing to leave, not when Y'shtola truly had heard enough crying for one night.

Estinien enjoyed his time in the city, but its walls were as confining as any other. He was comfortable beyond the gate, a restlessness in him settled by the open road that unfurled out of Radz-at-Han and the jungle that teemed with life on either side of it, the distant roar of the ocean guiding him forward. He figured it was much the same for Corisande, whose fingers trailed over the flora they passed, plucking the useful bits from time to time and tucking them away in their bag. They followed the path away from the city, down across its hills and curves, until they reached a grassy cliff overlooking the beach, just south of the Hamsa Hatchery, the spot they had made their unofficial training grounds the past few weeks. It was a quiet clearing, almost secluded but for the occasional march of the Radiant Host on the beach below, calling out commands as they ran their own training regimen.

Back when he'd first offered to train them, he'd done so out of concern—they were an able ranged fighter, with their magicks and their gun, but what would they do if they were forced to fight in close quarters? If their weapons were out of reach? Put that way, Corisande had found little reason to say no but their own disinclination for combat, which, in the end, was not stronger than his determination to see them safe or, more likely, their willingness to ease his mind.

Which was why he'd been so surprised when she'd returned to Thavnair after a few months’ holiday in the Cieldalaes and asked to resume their training. He’d obliged, of course—though the end of the Star had not come to pass, he was more than willing to help them keep up their skills for any future battles they found themself caught up in. And it seemed to help her, in a way. She’d been unusually quiet of late, even for her, and distracted in a way that spoke to a lack of sleep, but she always came to the door when he called on her. Out here, in the fresh, open, air, her shoulders straightened, and she focused with the kind of determination to do her personal best that she always showed in their training sessions.

Despite both of their best efforts, Corisande had taken neither to lance nor knife—he knew well from the battles they fought together that they were inclined more toward confusing and disarming enemies with the perfect aim of their gun than to dismemberment or anything more violent, and though she was perfectly fine to defend herself, she was hesitant to attack. So they stuck to hand to hand combat. Corisande was proficient in the basics now, and after a few days spent reviewing—blocks and dodging, pinning and throwing, the best parts of the body to land a punch or kick on—they mostly spent their time sparring. He was stronger than her, faster, too, but she was agile and quick thinking, and had the kind of unflagging endurance that meant she could dodge and twist away from him until he was dog-tired and she was hardly breathing any harder.

It was here where Corisande stood most sure these days, and it was here where Estinien learned the true extent of what she was dealing with.

—

It happened toward the end of their training session. They'd been locked in a fight for several minutes, Corisande dodging all his attacks, him blocking all of hers, when he finally managed to get her feet out from under her. She went down fast and Estinien moved faster, pinning her to the ground. He was already laughing, ready to tease her into giving up, when he caught the distant, wild look in her eyes, the startled twist of her mouth.

He released her, pushing himself up, but it was already too late—before he could even get his hands up she had bucked beneath him, throwing him enough that she could twist to the side, haul one arm across her body and strike out. He tried to roll with the hit, but the fear made her quicker, and she caught the side of his face with her fist, his head jerking to the side with the force of it. He cursed as he twisted off her, closing his eyes against the dirt and the grass that kicked through the air as she scrambled away from him.

"Corisande." He tried to speak calmly, but the pain in his jaw forced their name out as a grunt. He sucked in a sharp breath and, no idea what he was meant to say, forced the next words out evenly. “You’re safe, Corisande. It’s just me and you. Just me and you, on our cliff in Thavnair.”

He didn’t know if they were listening, if they could even hear him, if it had been the right thing to say. They’d pushed themself to their feet and held their dirt-covered fingers by their face, clenched into tight fists, but they didn’t approach him. He stayed where he was, too, one hand held out toward her, placating.

"It's just me," he tried again, attempting to soften his voice. "I'm not going to hurt you."

He wasn’t sure how long he’d waited there, unmoving, before Corisande began to uncurl, fists and shoulders loosening, expression melting at first into a sort of bewildered awareness, eyes darting, and then—as she caught sight of him, still kneeling, bruise blooming dark across his pale cheek—into wide-eyed guilt.

“Did I hurt you?” they asked, taking a faltering step forward, as if they weren’t sure he wanted them to approach.

“Not too bad.” He rose to his feet, probing the injured spot with his fingers. It was definitely going to sting for some time, but nothing was broken, and a quick run of his tongue around the inside of his mouth proved he still had all his teeth. “I didn’t know you could hit that hard.”

He’d meant to tease them, but their expression shuttered closed, and he gave it up. They turned their back to him, their face turned into the cool breeze that lifted off the sea as they looked silently out over the ocean. Estinien was surprised to find himself growing tense as they walked toward the edge of the cliff, frustration flaring in him as he followed after them for the fact that even after all the time they spent together, they were unreadable to him in moments like this—but they only sat quietly at the edge, their legs dangling in the air.

“I’m sorry,” Corisande said softly. “I did not think that would happen here. It never has while I am awake. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” He sat down next to them and tilted his head until he could meet their eye. “Nothing an ale at the Meyhane later can’t fix.”

That got a small smile out of her, which relieved him. He turned his attention back out to the sea, and a moment later she shifted toward him, resting her head on his shoulder. He didn’t ask any questions, didn’t really know what to do for her, only remembered her hand in his all those years ago, warm in the biting Coerthan cold, a tender tether to reality amidst the blinding blaze of his rage.

“’Tis a bit early for ale,” Corisande said after a while, the usual warmth returned to their quiet voice. “But how about breakfast?”

—

It had become routine since then, to get breakfast together when they were done training. Some days they found a cart in the bazaar, or returned to Corisande's apartment so she could cook, but most days, like today, they found themselves in Mehryde’s Meyhane. Corisande and Estinien sat themselves near one of the archways that looked out over the city, and Mihleel brought out their food—fresh bread and jam, bowls overflowing with grapes and cubes of melon, cheese and olives and poached eggs topped with peppers, more food than they could ever hope to eat just the two of them. He always paid, despite Corisande’s protests. He had more gil than he knew what to do with these days, and Mihleel never charged them full price anyway, but he always handed over a little extra gil as thanks, and left before she had the chance to hand it back.

Neither of them were the most conversational of companions, but they fell into an easy rhythm across the breakfast table most days, exchanging tales of their adventures—Corisande’s ranging from driving away monsters at the behest of beseeching townspeople to helping little girls make flower crowns, while more often than not Estinien was trekking across some beautiful but treacherous landscape to fulfill his bounties. But Corisande had been unusually withdrawn this morning, distant as she pushed food around her plate, only a few grapes actually making their way into her mouth. They still hadn’t spoken about that morning on the cliff, and Estinien was not inclined to push the matter, except that he had a favor to ask, one he was certain they were not going to like. It felt wrong to ask with the heavy silence that enshrouded their table.

Corisande maneuvered another grape onto their fork, and Estinien decided he’d best get to it. “Do you ever intend to tell me what’s wrong?”

To their credit, they didn’t outright deny the question. They paused, fork halfway to their mouth, and glanced up at him with such exhaustion in their expression that he almost took it back. “’Tis nothing you need worry yourself over. ‘Tis nothing anyone need worry themself over.”

“What was it you said to me when the Scions disbanded, when I asked why you concerned yourself with me?” He waited, but they didn’t offer any answer. “‘It’s what friends do, Estinien.’ If I’m your friend, then I suppose you’re mine, too. Consider this me returning the favor.”

Corisande sighed. When they looked up from their plate, they met his gaze with an unsure look.

"Do you recall the words you spoke to me in Azys Lla? To save my mercy for those who deserve it?”

"I do." He remembered that day well, hiking amongst the Allagan ruins and automatons left to rust, the noxious shade of green that shrouded the floating continent, the surge of hope when they’d released Tiamat from her shackles. He had only wanted to warn them, to make sure they knew the cost of whatever—or whoever—was to come. “You’re thinking of Zenos.”

"I did not want to fight him. I never wanted to fight him. I only wanted him to leave me and all of us be." Corisande seemed to shrink in her seat the more she spoke, curling in on herself beneath the weight of her thoughts. "Do you think it is right, what I did?"

The question surprised him. Did he think it was right? It wasn't something he would have thought to ask, but then Corisande had often surprised him with their train of thought, once they finally voiced it aloud. Not for the first time, he wondered how someone as disinclined to violence as they were ended up in the position of Warrior of Light, but he never asked. Whatever decisions had brought them this far, they had been made long before Estinien and Corisande met.

And yet, the question brought with it the clarity he had sought, the painful realization that the lack of sleep, their hunted expression that morning he’d frightened them, the withdrawn silences, everything that had seemed strange and off about them these past few weeks must all come back to him. That she was not free from him, even after his death, seemed profoundly unfair.

“The man would have seen you dead himself, if he had his way,” he said. “He’s not worth concerning yourself over now. Not much use in it, either.”

“He did get his way, in the end,” Corisande murmured, voice heavy with grief.

“He’s dead,” Estinien said, a touch too firmly. Corisande’s gaze snapped up to his, their eyebrows raised. “You’re not. You have your life. You have your friends, your partner, your work. Don’t let him take that from you, too.”

Corisande’s expression tightened, and for one long, terrifying moment, Estinien thought they might cry. Anger pulsed through him, bright and hot, and he wished Zenos were still alive, that he might kill him himself for all that he had wrought on Corisande.

But Corisande did not cry. She only reached quietly for her tea, taking up the cup delicately between her hands for a sip, and by the time she set it back down, she had schooled her expression into composure.

“Thank you for training me,” they said. “Back in Old Sharlayan, before Ultima Thule. You were right, then, too. Thank you.”

Estinien’s anger was already beginning to fade, leaving only a desire to protect her in its wake. “For what it’s worth, I would have done the same.”

Corisande only nodded. After a moment, they returned to pushing roasted peppers unenthusiastically about their plate, while Estinien considered whether he ought to say more. It was difficult to tell if anything he had said had made them feel better, but the heavy pall that had weighed down their earlier silence had dissipated. In the end he only pushed his toast and jam in her direction and, after a quiet beat, she traded her fork for the spread knife.

Estinien leaned back in his seat and turned his gaze out over the city. The vibrancy of Radz-at-han’s colorful buildings had returned with the rising of the sun, the light glinting off the metal finishings. They could have still had a peaceful morning, were it not for the request he had yet to make.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” he said. He waited for their mouth to be full of jam and bread before he added, “It involves Aymeric.”

The clatter of her knife on her plate was as illustrative as a sigh. She narrowed her eyes as she chewed, only speaking when she had swallowed. “He asked you to speak to me?”

“He didn’t think you would be agreeable to his request.” In truth, Aymeric had been trying for years to gain Corisande’s goodwill, and Corisande only withdrew further with every attempt made. Estinien had warned him ages ago to back off, lest he ruin any chance he might have to make amends before they could come around, and it seemed he was finally taking his advice. “I only agreed to ask on his behalf because it concerns the safety of all those in Ishgard. You’ve been avoiding the delegate.”

“I have not been avoiding him,” they murmured. Estinien was amused to discover they could be petulant, even if only a little. “I have been busy.”

“While you have been busy, blasphemies have been turning up in Foundation. Whatever you think of their leader, the people need your help. It’s not like you to turn away.”

Corisande spread jam onto a piece of bread with more concentration than necessary, avoiding his gaze. He added, with barely restrained amusement, “Artoirel will be helping out, too.”

Corisande sighed. “I’ll meet with the delegate tomorrow.” She bit into her toast with pointed forcefulness, and Estinien couldn’t help but laugh.

—

Breakfast wrapped up quickly after that, the quiet far more comfortable than when they had started. Mihleel helped Corisande pack up the remaining bread in brown paper and gave them each a jar of jam to take home, though they would both be back in the morning, when she’d likely give them another. They passed a few people on their way out of the Meyhane, on their way in for a late breakfast or early lunch, and retraced their steps back to Corisande’s apartment. Just before they reached the stairs that led back to Kama, Corisande paused.

“Y’shtola and I are not together anymore.” They said the words in a rush, as if they were in a hurry to have them said.

Estinien was so surprised that he could not keep himself from asking, “What? What happened?”

Corisande shook their head. “’Twas for the best.”

“Is there nothing you can do to mend things?” It was hard to believe anything could have separated the two of them, as close as they were.

“I think I have done enough,” Corisande said, a small, sad smile on her lips. “I miss her, even more than I thought possible. But I just want her to be happy now.”