{ pfsb } a letter and a meeting

[jaskoleczka]

Time is passing strangely for Ciri; it's difficult to tell if she has slept entire days or only a few hours. There is no way to mark the days aside from weather, and that changes quickly enough that it is wholly unreliable.

(The Bar, in her infinite kindness and usual sympathetic meddling, has in fact created a mild time loop in Ciri's room, giving her time to recover and somewhat ignoring the distressed flurry which has emanated out in ripples from her arrival.)

She comes downstairs, therefore, determined to more fully explore this strange place. There are stables she wishes to visit, and the woods remind her very slightly of those around Kaer Morhen...but her plans are abruptly canceled when, along with the strong hot tea she'd ordered, Lady Bar provides her also with a note.

Anyone watching would see Ciri rub at her forehead as if to quell a sudden headache, then lay a hand on the bartop and request something in a soft voice. Quill and pen appear, and she bends her head to write briskly and neatly:

Reverend Daughter,

I am terribly sorry for the distress I have caused. Please know it was not intentional.
I welcome your request for a meeting. I am at your disposal and shall visit Room 99 within the hour.

- Ciri

Folding the note, she looks for a waitrat to charge with its delivery and watches as the messenger scampers up the stairs before she turns with a sigh back to her tea.

Which she is now wishing was something a good deal stronger.

---

It's about half an hour later that she stands at the door of Room 99 with no idea of what to expect, knocking lightly with gloved knuckles.

Comments

[we_do_bones]

"I don't care about the risk. I care about you."

She looks up now and finds her old crooked grin. "What the hell. It's what we signed up for, right? We're doing this together. That's all I need to know."

She's sure she'll tell herself that over and over again when she can't sleep tonight, but for now...Harrow needs to hear it, and honestly? She needs to say it. "You are the scariest necromancer the Ninth has ever made and I'm your sworn sword. What's the worst they can throw at us?"

[we_bring_hell]

She tightens her fingers affectionately in Gideon's hair. "Nothing worse than what we have thrown at each other, my dear."

[we_do_bones]

She lifts the hand she still holds and brings it to her lips, full of emotions she has no way of distinguishing. Fear wrestles with pride, dread with determination.

But above them all, this aching swell in her chest, the one that hurts her heart and threatens to crack her ribs and only seems to grow by the day. Damn, she loves this girl.

"Damn, I love you, Nonagesimus," she says, because why keep it to herself. "You absolutely fucking wreck me."

[we_bring_hell]

"Griddle," she says helplessly.

You deserve so much more. But her throat closes around the protest. She pulls Gideon forward as she bends her head and kisses her.

[we_do_bones]

She pushes herself forward and up, following Harrow's guiding hand, and kisses her adept back with every roiling feeling she's got. "Always me and thee, gloom mistress. You're my main squeeze, my shadowy sweetheart."

[we_bring_hell]

"You are the greatest treasure of my heart, Gideon," she whispers from close range. "Bravest, truest, strongest. Kindest. Despite all we did to break you."

She presses their foreheads together and breathes in Gideon; sweat and greasepaint and power.

[we_do_bones]

In all their past battles, in every scuffle and every test of power, was this where she just wanted to be? Kneeling before Harrowhark Nonagesimus, fully her creature, unable to imagine a world where she lived while Harrow perished?

She has no idea. But it doesn't matter, because this is how she feels now. She huffs a breath through her nose and closes her eyes, relishing Harrow's touch, how close she is, anticipating with a thrill how much closer she'll be later. "I'm unbreakable," she bluffs. "You should know that by now."

[we_bring_hell]

"I do," she whispers. "Believe me."

God, how she'd tried. Gideon's hatred had felt right, in a House where she was shamed by adoration rooted in ignorance of her sins. Gideon's forgiveness means everything, in part because Harrow had done everything she could to make herself unforgivable.

She closes her eyes and just rests here, sharing breath; Gideon's scent cutting through the fug of incense and ink and blood sweat that attends her.

[we_do_bones]

She stays here a long moment, breathing Harrow in until the tension in her neck and shoulders begins to reluctantly unwind.





"Is there a reason there's a sheet over my weights?"

[we_bring_hell]

"Oh," she says. "I covered them with the skeleton to present a more formal image. Having a single room for all our needs is not always convenient when trying to make an impression."

For instance: their beds are not made and there are clothes on the floor.

[we_do_bones]

Gideon could not care less what some prophetic ashen-haired twit could think about their room, but Harrow does. She cares about all that stuff; how they look and how they act and how it reflects on the Ninth and all its shabby finery and thousands of years of tradition.

So she just nods, and turns her head to kiss Harrow's palm.

"What are you working on, anyway?"

[we_bring_hell]

"Oh,"she says again, subtly coloring. "It's foolish."

"Did you read the Bias sermon on necromancers and cavaliers?"

She was supposed to, in the lead up to deployment to Canaan House. But that doesn't mean she did.

[we_do_bones]

"You must know I didn't," she says. "Obviously I left all that book stuff to you, the smart one."

[we_bring_hell]

Harrow smiles indulgently. "It is the canonical theological reconciliation of the necromancer-cavalier bond with the other moral obligations."

"It's honestly rather moving, except Bias takes a pretty firm stand against libidinal bonds between adept and cavalier."

[we_do_bones]

Gideon makes an understanding noise.

"No sexing it up with your cav, huh?"

[we_bring_hell]

Harrow's flush deepens, but she says: "I was composing an apology--in the theological sense of the word--a defense or rebuttal."

[we_do_bones]

"Ahhhhh," says Gideon, whose grin has gone full smirk.

"Okay, that one I would read."

[we_bring_hell]

Harrow looks at her sharply. "I thought you would think it a waste of time, to try and justify ourselves."

[we_do_bones]

"I think...that nothing you think worth doing is a waste of time. Besides," she shrugs.

"It's not justification, is it? The guy's wrong. You're just pointing it out."

[we_bring_hell]

It's more than that; it's an argument for their existence she will need, she expects, even if she's a Lyctor. An argument she may need to make to God Himself.

(If Harrow in this moment knew the true nature of God it would drive her insane.)

She runs her thumb lightly over Gideon's jaw and lips, knowing that no matter how cautious she is, her fingers will come away stained.

"There is no sin in loving you, Gideon Nav. No mistake in knowing your taste; no peril in your touch. I will not let them say so."

"I have forsaken my vows but never my duty. And you are the very definition of chivalry."

[we_do_bones]

"Magnus and Abigail were married," she points out, now a little uncertain. "Is it really that bad? Who's going to tell us we're wrong? I mean, aside from the Eighth, and maybe the Second, but we knew that going in."

But she frowns a little, even against Harrow's touch, Harrow's reassurances. She shouldn't have to be making them, should she? "Are we in trouble?"

[we_bring_hell]

They are in terrible trouble, of course; but she knows what Gideon means. "No," she says. "There will be--disapproval. Obstacles. Not as great as two necromancers of different Houses marrying, but perhaps comparable."

"Yet they cannot actually stop us. And if I am a Lyctor--" She shrugs, dropping her hand to her knee.

"But I am irritated that anyone should think it wrong, even if we have the power to ignore them. Others do not. It is a pernicious doctrine and I will not accept being a mere polite exception." That mark puckers between her brows.

There is something deeply, unbeautifully Harrowhark about this; the stubborn self-righteousness and ambition and prideful all-or-nothing brinkmanship.

[we_do_bones]

It is. Gideon loves that predictable frown, the furrow creasing Harrow's paint that says I will show them all. "Then I guess you better finish writing it," she says. "It sounds pretty important."

How many cavs and necros had to keep their love a secret or be metaphorically hanged for it? How many have never thought it could be an option? For every pair like Camilla and Palamedes, how many are like Gideon and Harrow?

Except that's not possible: no one could be like them, not without everything that forged them on the Ninth. "No bolts of lightning have struck us down yet, so I guess it's probably cool with God."

[we_bring_hell]

"And if people underestimate you because they believe you married into your role, then let them walk into the spinning blades all-unknowing," she says.

"I have so much to do," she frets. "But sometimes I have to look away from the theorems for a time. And time we have, here."

[we_do_bones]

"Did we get married and you didn't tell me?" she teases, reaching up to press her thumb into the furrow between Harrow's brows. "There's no rush, Harrow. It's important to you, so spend time on it. Take a break now and then."

She tilts her head toward the bathroom and waggles her eyebrows. "If you feel like you need more of a break, I bet I can figure out a good way to distract you...maybe while I wash off all this sweat in the shower."