#tricephalos

Duchess almost wished her masked wouldn't be fixed, lest Recluse could keep her hands on her face just a moment longer. 

But the witch was adept at everything she did, including wardrobe changes. 

“Good as new,” she commented, restoring Duchess's vision just in time to catch the end of her smile. 

“Fulghor is slain,” Duchess blurted, chastising herself for having nothing better to discuss.

“I was there, Priestess,” Recluse commented, sitting next to her on the brittle bed. “You want to know if I'm satisfied?” 

“I do,” Duchess insisted, “slowly but surely the others have come into themselves. Grown.”

“The executor had their chest torn open.” Recluse pointed out.  

“Yet they walk among us, fight among us as if they hadn't.” The onyx-skinned woman had nothing to say to that, which was unusual. 

Duchess had assumed the role of hopeless pessimist. Unlike the others nothing awaited her at the far side of this endeavor. There hadn't been anything to look forward to, so her own survival meant little in view of the grand painting.

But the Recluse had surely won her heart, and worse yet… her hope. The Nightlord had to be slain, but the witch spoke of ways to spare her life from the fate of the roundhold. 

She didn't want to believe, not unless or until it was real. 

But as an ebony hand slid into her own she couldn't help but feel remorse. Her affection had done nothing but given her a weakness. It was easy not to care for herself, but extremely hard not to care for the woman next to her.

“I want you to have this,” Recluse told her, offering what seemed to be one of her old staves. 

“it looks retired,” Duchess noted, running a hand over the cracked frame. The staff was holding itself together by mere fibres– left over vessels from the tree it had been carved from. 

There was still power imbued with it but her intuition with the magic told her not much. This staff would hardly produce a pebble, which meant it wasn't gifted as a weapon but rather an item of sentimentality. 

In defeating Fulghor the Recluse had looked weary, as though the thing she had been waiting for had left nothing but disappointment. 

Given the circumstances it was hard not to think about the possibility the disappointment was about her. 

“I'll cherish it,” Duchess said determinedly, “and ensure it always has a place in my belt.”

“Save the space,” Recluse laughed, “it would only slow you down. Observe it, when you need to.” 

“Does it dance? Or perhaps sing?” Duchess teased, setting it next to her. Recluse laid a gentle hand on her leg, her fingers strumming something against her waistcoat. 

“I thought it might comfort you,” Recluse told her, “knowing it belonged to me.” 

Duchess looked at it again. Yes, it was derelict, but it retained elements of the witch in its structure and aura. Fine traces of her white hair, imprints of her hands on the optimal piece of shaft. A dark, eerie, and otherwise undetectable energy associated with someone of the Recluse's caliber. 

It would be hard to look at it and not think of her. 

“I appreciate it,” Duchess told her, “I just… I thought that you were indifferent to me.”

“I could be,” Recluse said quietly, “but I am wise enough to know I mean more to you than indifference.” 

Duchess wished the woman would refrain from her riddle-talk. But from what she could tell Recluse had all but admitted that there was a mutual connection. 

What had started as a mutual reprieve had graduated into something more. There were no longer words to describe it, though the Executor had spun tales of emotion so powerful between people in times of old. 

The full moon had devoted her life essence to a person of Radagon, and he had submitted his body to the goddess Marika. Finlay had travelled disease-ridden with a demigoddess on her back through provinces. Twins, who had always done right by each other.

How much of it was true she couldn't be sure. But the stars were supposedly brighter for it, and the moon darker.

“When this is all over,” Duchess began, “I'd like for you to take from me anything you'd like. Useful or otherwise.” 

“I'd take your mask,” Recluse told her, “impart it to my hat so that you might see everything that comes after vicariously.” 

“I would like that,” Duchess murmured, raising the other woman's knuckles to her lips. “With the promise that you would take time every so often to stand in the mirror. So I might see you.” 

Recluse looked at her in a way that made her stomach sank. The sentimentality was not lost but Duchess could tell finitely that from here on out they would no longer be getting to know each other. 

They would be saying an elongated goodbye. 

“We could all use rest,” she said, allowing the witch to tuck her hair behind her ear, "perhaps we could spend it here. Just the two of us.”

“Mmm,” Recluse agreed, “What I would give for some extra time.” 

“Every second counts,” Duchess agreed, leaning in to meet her quiet kiss. It was soft and sorrowful, but within it was a passion she hadn't experienced yet. 

Her clock reset so she could prolong it, hoping to uncover what this mysterious emotion was. 

But it seemed her work would entail the unveiling of at least one more of the witch's secrets. 

“I use to disregard the use of your abilities for pleasure,” Recluse recounted, pulling away slightly, “I have to admit my opinion on the matter has changed.” 

Duchess laughed as much as she was able, pulling again the interesting woman towards her lips. 

“Then when I am gone my power will become yours,” she said, “use it to my discretion.” 

Recludes lips pursed in a restrained smile, her wand wandering up Duchess’ leg and toward her thigh. Reprieve she'd called it, but it was more than that now. It was salvation. 

Salvation that would have to wait as the archer barged into her quarters, his hood pulled back to reveal his scarred face. 

“Priestess,” he said with urgency, “your brother and I wish to speak with you.” 

“Can't it wait?” She asked, “I'm battle-weary.” 

“Wylder told me that whatever you were doing with the mage wouldn't correct that. A calm discussion over tea would.” 

Duchess stuck her tongue in her cheek, cursing out her brother in the name of the Nightlord. 

“Very well,” she agreed, standing up. “Tell Wylder I'll be around the table shortly.” 

Iron Eye departed, having enough decency to close the door. 

“Do your diligence,” Recluse whispered as she stood up, “I'll be in the tower avoiding the bird.” 

“With haste,” Duchess assured her, holding the door open for the taller woman. 

Watching her go was made slightly less painful by the comforting sight of her gait. But it was short-lived as their direction split and she was once again doomed to listen to the sound of her own footsteps on the floor of the roundtable. 

Wylder should expect half my attention she surmised.