V.
Faded, but still there on her arm. Sat above the purple gem of Caiphon. A gloss of unknown, thousands of planes away pulsing under its surface.
She’d scratched the tir’su with her own claw back at camp, remembering the way it’d felt as Voss marked her. Slow. Cautious. Like spilling a secret onto her skin. She wanted to understand it. Peel out the confession in its lines, curve.
She’d caught Lae’zel glancing at it more than once. But no questions, just observation.
They hadn’t spoken about that night after Vlaakith appeared in camp. When Vanquish had found her scrubbing the warpaint off her face so hard she’d bled, wept. When Vanquish had rode her face so hard with her c*nt she stung her blood wet tear wet skin. But for a little while, she’d made Lae’zel forget about her grief, scrubbing it raw with the pain of something else. Tangible.
V.
A tir’su not just on her arm, but beneath another letter from Voss and his barely legible scrawl.
‘Tomorrow. Sundown.’
So she’d told everyone. Asked Lae’zel, Gale to join her. Karlach asked to come along, begging to stretch her legs.
“You know you can go for a walk anytime. I won’t hold it against you,” she’d said to Karlach, several feet apart as they lay on the grass, tucked under the blanket of a tree and the pelting rain above. It had been raining for days. Sodden ground in the morning; deep tracks of mud in, out; comfort as they all tried to sleep, the rain’s composition different as it hit canvas to wood, to metal and grindstone, to their skin and the fizz as it hit fire.
Karlach held out her hand beyond the canopy, the rain hitting her skin with a hiss. A string of steam rising up with each drop of rain. “Shame,” she’d said, “got anything else you wanna hold against me.” Stuck out her tongue.
“Kafig.” Vanquish had thrown a twig at Karlach. She’d laughed loud and sharp, twisting it between red fingers. “You just want to get some at Sharess’ Caress.”
Karlach waved the twig at Vanquish. “Well, yeah. You’ll be f*cking that creaky old githyanki. What we gonna be doing - watching?”
She’d thrown a handful of mud at Karlach next. And received a faceful back.
“Great. Thanks,” she’d said through a laugh, picking mud and leaves off her face, chest. “Now I need to bathe before we leave.”
Karlach had snorted. “Just strip and stand in the rain. Easy peasy.”
“You’d like that wouldn’t you,” as Vanquish had hauled herself up, slowly wiped herself clean.
“Duh.” She’d stared at the mark on Vanquish’s arm. A carve of what she’d learned was tir’su. Vanquish was covered in scars, marks, burns like hers. Even if different, all of them said the same thing – past, and pain. “What’s it say?” when Karlach had nodded to the tir’su.
“V.” Had wiped a smear of mud on wet grass.
“For you, or him?”
Vanquish had shrugged. “Didn’t ask.” Had looked at Karlach. “Does it matter?”
She’d swayed her head from side to side for a while. Tip of her tail echoing. “You know what you’re doing with him, right?”
“What?” Vanquish bristled, “little istik maiden going to get eaten by big bad old githyanki?”
She’d smirked. “Kinda think that’s what you want.”
Vanquish just wiped the rest of the mud off her skin.
Karlach pushed onto her elbows, but now closer. Had seen Vanquish flinch. “I’ve known a lot of bad people in my life, plum. Know ‘em when I see ‘em.”
A handful of grass in Vanquish’s hand she’d plucked hard from the ground, claws too hard in her palm as she’d stared at a small puddle forming at her feet. “You sure about that?”
Now they linger in the foyer of Sharess’ Caress, Vanquish stopping for a drink along the way. Gale peers at the shelves of the ground floor, pointing out books ‘most unusual for a pleasure house’. Lae’zel comments as she reads the spines that she recognises some from the library in K’liir. And some that she’d seen in Vanquish’s tent. Only Gale’s personal portable library rivalled the floors of her tent, some books as make-shift pillows, night-stand, sometimes a plate.
I need Orpheus so you can live.
Vanquish hears The Emperor as she downs a glass of rum, sweet on her lips.
So does Voss. Lae’zel.
It feels like The Emperor swims in her head. Looms above.
You’ll all be transformed if you lose his protection. Then dead.
Vanquish orders another glass of rum. Drinks. She hears Lae’zel and Gale discussing the contents of another set of shelves behind two patrons, one in the other's lap. She hears Karlach’s laughter.
Is that a threat?
A statement.
Pushes the glass along the bartop. Slides off her stool.
Do you really think he’ll let you live if you free him? Trusting a githyanki like Voss is stupid. Even for you.
Maybe. But at least he didn’t play dress-up as Nezarr.
Quiet, as she pushes through the crowd. Grabbing the attention of Lae’zel and Gale. Nudges Karlach’s tadpole with her own.
He was the most logical choice for my appearance–
A strange pause.
–at the time.
Is that a mindflayer’s attempt at an apology?
Do you think you’ll find one with the githyanki?
Runs her fingers over the ‘V’ on her arm.
What for?
Open your eyes before your legs for once.
Ruins the surprise.
Vanquish pauses. A familiar face catches her eye. Korilla. She blinks, feeling the rum hit her quicker, harder than she expects. Tries to remember how many glasses she downed.
“Don’t tell me it’s Raphael,” says Vanquish, dry, tired.
There’s a half-smile on Korilla, and she licks the beer foam off her lips. “He’s waiting for you upstairs with the githyanki.” Takes another drink, lounging on her elbow, picturesque at the end of the bar with her halo of curls, secret smile.
“Well he can wait.” Vanquish leans against the stair’s railing, glancing at Gale and Lae’zel deep in conversation as they slowly approach. Karlach at the landing, looking down over them both against the rails.
“And the Kith'rak?”
Vanquish smiles, her tail swishing with a snap, hitting the handrail behind. “What about him?”
“Hear you’re on first name terms.” Takes another drink of her beer.
“Hear you’re a nosy c*nt.”
Korilla laughs at that, tapping the bar for another drink, her stein empty. “I can’t help it if your little merry band provides endless entertainment while I work.”
“Spy, you mean.” Vanquish feels Gale and Lae’zel closer. Nudges their tadpoles to hurry up.
“Observe.” Shrugs. “Keep an eye on you. You lot keep me on my toes.”
“Don’t listen to this sh*te head,” says Karlach above, disdain.
Korilla looks up. Winks at Karlach. “Hey dynamite. Long time no see.”
Karlach throws up a middle finger. Scoffs. “Wish it was longer.”
“Be seeing you again very soon, I hope.”
Vanquish listens between her words, peering for a clue before she’s toe to toe with Raphael again. Voss said he’d found a way to free Orpheus, and it had to be Raphael. she pushes off the railing, one foot on the bottom step. “He can talk all he wants. I’m not signing sh*t.”
“You sure? It’s not all about that ticking clock in your head.” Leans against the bar as she watches Vanquish walk up the stairs. Slow, purpose. “This fight isn't just about Baldur's Gate, or the Sword Coast, or even Faerûn.” Vanquish pauses at the landing, looks over her shoulder and down. “If the brain wins, the Illithid Empire wins. You’ll lose far more than that pretty face.” Another half-smile. “And that Kith’rak.”
Another flick of her tail. “Like Raphael gives a sh*t beyond his own arse.”
“No world, no souls. And what’s a devil’s life without souls. I also hear illithids make terrible clients.” Her eyes flick to the satchel at Vanquish’s side before she takes another drink. “And allies.”
Vanquish feels something nudge her mind, like the shape of a smirk to skin, the reminder I’m here, I listen.
Lae’zel and Gale join her, Gale muttering under his breath about ‘was that my old professor? No. Too short’. Lae’zel’s eyes curious as she observes Korilla, feeling something off with her. Like the strangeness she feels pulse off Wyll; when she touches Vanquish’s skin.
“See you soon,” says Korilla to Vanquish’s silence, her back as she leaves.
“f*cking hope not,” Vanquish hears Karlach mutter ahead.
Several feet from Raphael’s door, and Vanquish feels him.
Caiphon’s gem stirs, cold against her dusk skin, the view of his plane within, shifting. Stars and skies warping into what she thinks is an eye. Like the one she sees in her dreams. That looks for her now through the blindness under burns.
It had been the same way she’d felt as she lingered next to Voss’ silver sword, reaching out to almost touch, feeling something netted in the silver she’s called to; a language Caiphon can understand.
Inhales, and smells smoke, patchouli.
Scratches her arm he’d marked, feels his touch instead.
She wonders if the last time they’d touched, that urgency as he’d slammed her against the door and kissed, breathing an order to survive, he’d sunk an enchantment. Spell. Printing his strange psionics into the way she bleeds and breathes.
Maybe it’s just in the way she wants him. Memory making the markers of Voss feel real, because she knows he’s just beyond that door.
“So what’s the plan, plum?” Karlach’s voice brings her back, as she bounces on her toes, shakes her hands as if she’s getting ready to take a swing.
“Less plum and more violet, we’ve been over this.”
Karlach snorts a laugh. “Plum suits you better. Violet’s for waifs and fainting maidens.”
“So what you’re saying is she is soft and delectably juicy instead?” chimes in Gale, twisting a sliver of weave between his fingers.
“Bingo.”
Lae’zel makes a noise, barges in-front of Vanquish. “Enough of this incessant chatter.” But Vanquish snaps out her hand, pulls her back.
“I’ll do the talking-”
Lae’zel yanks her arm from Vanquish’s grip. Stares. “Then do it quick.”
What else was left, but to open the door.
It isn’t Raphael she sees first, but Voss.
He could be the only thing she sees, cares. Maybe he is, sometimes. Maybe for the next several moments he is.
A ringing in her ears as she stares at his face. Missing an ear. Deep, fresh wounds extending from his ravaged ear over his face, near splitting his cheek in two. She smells blood not in the way she spreads her legs, in the way it makes her stomach lurch, in the way it makes the burns on her face ache.
Mid sentence Voss looks from Raphael to her, and something shifts in his expression. Softens. Maybe he reads the questions on her face. Something that might mean curiosity, worry. Maybe he feels her longing. Maybe he just smells her c*nt.
Maybe it’s because his answer just walked in the door. Hope.
“Istik,” he says, eyes flicking from Vanquish to Lae’zel, to the others.
“Gith.”
A nudge in his expression as Voss smiles, wry.
Raphael, mid word, mid pose, looks between the kith’rak, between his latest potential pen to paper, Vanquish, and notices between them that familiar look of undress, of I feel you inside, out, that mortals can never wash off.
This might be easier than he ever believed. His delight smoothing over his lips, curling his fingers in a suave greeting to Vanquish and her merry band of strange.
“Isn’t it funny how things just…fall into my lap,” says Raphael, looking from Vanquish, to Voss.
Voss stares at Raphael, unmoving. Vanquish can almost see the edge of his fang. “It could be even easier for you, devil.”
Raphael waves his hand at Voss, barely a glance at the kith’rak, attention all for his new arrival, potential client, and one step closer to what he wants.
“Have you gone deaf in your venerable age? Dense?” At last Raphael looks at Voss. Vanquish hears the squeak of leather as he tightens his fist. She watches it.
(wants it around her neck)
“Devil says no, and the kith’rak listens, yes?”
Vanquish feels like if Raphael says another word, Voss might rip the next out of his throat. And as much as she’d like to witness that, they both need him and those vexing words.
She’s closer to Voss, but doesn’t touch. At least not her hand. The curl of her tail brushes against his body, silhouette of leather half obscured in shadow. It’s brief. Barely there.
The touch stills him, but not, she’s sure, in the way she wanted. For Vanquish is unsure if Voss breathes for a second, more. Like she touched that which wasn’t hers. Arrogance that she could hold back the beast.
“Well?” says Raphael, his smile broad, soaked in smarm. If he bit, he could chew the air between Vanquish and Voss just then. So thick, choking. “Leave.” A word for Voss. A wave of his hand for Voss. But as he feels him start to leave, the wood of the floor creaking beneath, he looks back up, “she’s mine for now,” and a small, tacky smile.
Impulse, and she has Voss’ wrist, small fingers around the leather, catching a patch of skin, exposed from his glove.
“Tread careful, gol sh’k’nal.” Voss stares at Raphel, fangs ready to bare. But she knows he only sees an answer to what he wants. What good is hope, dead.
“Someone want to tell me why the f*ck I’m here?” she says to Voss, brusque. Fingers on his wrist pinching his pulse, tight.
A last look at the devil, his smile stuck like tar, then to Vanquish, words so quiet they’re only hers. “Get me the Hammer,” and moves closer to leave, bodies touch, “and you’ll get me,” the words simmer against her skin. And she almost opens her mouth, to catch.
Voss pulls away his arm, feeling the devil at his back, smelling the work of his words between her legs.
“what Hammer?”
“Well,” says Raphael, catching her attention once more, “mine of course.”
Vanquish digs claw to palm, but watches the candlelight soft against the strange pearlescent of Voss’ sword as he leaves, its cool lustre untouchable from the warm candlelight, like threads of silver still molten, moving, never cooled from the day it was forged. Held.
It’s the last thing she sees before she takes a deep, steadying breath, and turns to Raphael.
“You’ve got five minutes.”
“I only need two.”
Emptiness. Ringing in her ears.
It felt like freedom. As much as that “no” felt that she spat at Raphael. Watching in satisfaction as he sucked back his smile and saccharine words back down. He wanted almost as much as Voss. And all it took was her. Her pretty little soul, and pretty little name on a piece of paper.
Emperor silenced, she could feel the yawning maw of Caiphon as if above her, behind. Not a thousand, thousand planes away instead. His eye followed the devil’s lips. Listened. Waited. Already knew what his constellation’s answer would be. But his power thrummed in the gem fused on her wrist. A reminder who she really belonged to.
“you’ll get me” another reminder rings in her empty head.
Then “No?” seethes Lae’zel outside Raphael’s room, Karlach stretched against the wall, Gale muttering to himself.
“No,” Vanquish repeats, touching her temple as the emptiness, gone. As she feels the bile suck back down, the warmth the shape of the Prism form in her head, heart, as the Emperor’s voice pricks against her mind once more.
There you are. I thought I’d lost you.
Still here. Quite liked the peace and quiet. Can I keep it?
She feels a nudge of something against her mind. Impatience. Understanding. Concern?
When the brain is dead, yes.
How generous of you.
“Vanquish–” snaps Lae’zel, so close she can count her spots framing the new warpaint she wears for Orpheus, for herself. “The Hammer was right in our grasp and all you had to do was–”
“Then why didn’t you do it?” she snaps back. “Why didn’t you sign yourself, your soul over to him?”
“He wanted–”
“Me. My word.” A pause. “My promise. My soul. Whatever worth that is anymore.” Flexes her fingers, the aged burns on her skin aching. The ring Voss gave her tight on her skin. “And that sh*tting crown.”
Gale pipes up from the side, two fingers alight with the weave. “Useful crown, actually.”
Vanquish stares at her friend, at the glimmer in his eyes, the pulse from his soul at the promise of the crown that could tumble to him instead. She understands the dance you play with others, but mostly yourself, when what you desire is so close you can cradle it. Claim–
For isn’t it the dance she and Voss turn, turn, turn, for Hammer, for body and bliss, for that beast she sees behind his eyes, for the one in his prison, tucked beneath another master.
“f*ck Raphael,” she says, feeling another nudge in her head from The Emperor. “I’d rather stick that crown on a gnoll than him.”
So that’s where you were.
Unfortunately.
What did he offer?
Her hesitation is enough for him to dig out what she doesn’t say.
Plenty.
“Tsk’va. There will be no crown for you kainyank to fight over if we do not get the Hammer and free my Prince.”
Vanquish feels the drag of the Emperor through her head as he listens, learns, as if his claws peel through skin, bone, for her.
Have you learned nothing? You free him, we all die.
What’s life without a little risk.
I’ve shared your sentiment more than you know–
Then share it again.
Lae’zel stares. Gale stares. Karlach blows a lock of hair out of her face.
“Well what’s the big plan now, plum?” asks Karlach, question in her voice, sympathy in her eyes.
“I too would love to know.” He’s back, behind her.
Quiet in the corridor as she turns, pulled back into Voss’ presence. Power. And then just tells him.
“You want the Hammer?”
Voss pushes off the wall, walks closer. Forces her with every step to tilt back her head to look up.
“Your usefulness ends without it.”
The edge of her mouth twitches. Her stomach would turn if her c*nt didn’t ache for him to bite those words into her skin, pin them down onto her soundless throat.
“Every devil’s got a house, right?” she says, spreading out her arms, “you want it? I’ll go f*cking get it.”
A half smile on Voss’ thin lips. Tries to find the fear in her eyes he wants to peel out. Wonders how far it's buried beneath her skin, if at all.
Maybe it was burned out of her with that flame that had twisted her flesh var’cha. Fear smeared to stars. A piece of the Astral Plane plucked over her skin, and maybe one day they’d find what was lost, take it back. She’d break his chains, and he’d remember once more how to laugh.
–you are more githyanki than you know
“You’d rather fight a devil, than simply give him what he wants,” another step closer, the leather of his gloves squeak as he spreads his fingers, wishing his claws were bare, “to submit.”
–you are more githyanki than you know
And she just laughs. It’s almost delirious. As if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “All of you. Everyone wants something from me. A piece of me. From Raphael to you to that illithid in my head–”
There’s quiet. Sharp enough that if she swallowed, it would cut.
You idiot.
The Emperor’s voice rings in her head. Distant, but as if on her own tongue. The Prism hovers at her side, aglow, ready to protect. But the orange light kissing her skin only gives it all away. Painting her red for the hunter whose name she’s already called to the stars, pinned between his legs.
Karlach behind sucks on her teeth as Lae’zel swears something in tir. But it’s just more ringing in her f*cking ears.
“A ghaik?” Voss looks from Vanquish, to Lae’zel, who can barely look at her Kith’rak, as the omission-not-lie-not-lie spills.
Then Vanquish feels fingers touch her temple. Leather and she leans back, face pushed with force.
“You answer to a ghaik?” Steady voice, steady touch.
His thumb digs beneath her eye, and Vanquish wonders if he’ll just push up, pluck it out, dig into her brain and pull out the tadpole himself.
Worth a try, she thinks, already tasting the blood on her lip.
“What does it want?” demands Voss.
Vanquish tests the words on her mouth before she speaks. “Same thing as you and me – freedom.”
“Kainyank. Freedom. What does it know of freedom,” he seethes, his grip on her head tighter still.
“Enough that it wants it,” she persists, “from the brain. Like me.”
Voss scratches claws against her scalp.
like you
Voss steps close enough their bodies touch, “where,” he asks, although, as he looks at the Prism, hovering by her face, his hand–
–he already knows.
Vanquish swallows. “Where do you think,” she whispers, eyes narrow, the swish of her tail sharp and sore.
He’d listened to her. Tried to believe as she’d said his Honour Guard had attacked because they’d believed they’d all turned ghaik, smelled it on her.
He could smell ghaik on her. Feel it when they touched, sometimes. But it dissolved, smothered by everything else he felt needed wanted of her instead. A scent, changed.
But if she’d had Orpheus’ trust, why did she not have the Honour Guard’s? That…he supposed wasn’t too strange. The Honour Guard had hated him, and loved Orpheus like he was their blood, breath.
It was only through Orpheus’ power, or an attuned outsider like Voss who were permitted entry inside the Prism. Anomalies had happened in the thousands of years, of course. A creation of the Hells that had snatched a piece of the Astral could be capricious.
He’d thought longer as he’d stared at her. Saw her skin sweat stained blood stained. Bruised. Beautiful. Z’var’zai.
And he’d forgotten to care anymore.
Voss tries to speak, but nothing comes. Just ragged, frantic breath as his grip on her tightens, eyes narrow, and with a flash and swirl of white that sucks the air out of the small corridor they all stand, silent, Voss, Vanquish and the Prism, disappear.
The first thing she feels is wet.
Cold, pelting rain as it hits her face, drowns her ears in a monotone drone.
She breathes short. Sharp.
Opens her eyes. To the left is the sea, beneath the sand, to the right a grassy high bank. Before her, Voss.
“You f*cking-” she starts to yell, words a muted struggle in the rain.
“This is my anger,” he roars, his sword already unsheathed. She doesn’t even remember when. How. “Not yours.”
“They need me. Him!” she shouts back, the Prism clutched so hard in her hand it dents her skin, the sharp edges starting to cut. “His power, as you f*cking know, halts their tadpoles. Mine.” And then throws the Prism at Voss, hitting him hard so hard in the chest a spike marks the leather. It falls to the sand at his feet. “Or am I the only one that matters.”
Both of them just stare at it, stuck in the sand for seconds, its eerie glow the only light for what feels like miles. Then it plucks itself from the sand, hovers before Voss’s face, not kind, but as if in warning, before it flies back to Vanquish’s side, hovering comfortably.
Their ceremorphosis has not progressed.
The Emperor’s voice and reassurance does nothing to abate her anger. She trembles, Caiphon’s gem on her wrist a searing violet that spills its decadent power from its gem, unbidden, desperate to answer her call.
“Answer me!” A demand, as the violet violence from her gem craws over her hand, arm, pulling her veins to the surface of her dusky skin, emphasising the marks of her hellblood.
Voss doesn’t. Maybe that is his answer. And he just blasts her with a pulse of his overpowering psionics, sending her paces back on the sand.
Vanquish steadies herself, heels scoring lines in the wet sand as Voss tries to hit her with another wave of psionics. She’s felt this same sensation before around her neck by the cliff that first night. Tight, as he pulled her from the edge.
Now, he pushes.
Vanquish propels herself from the sand without thought. She knows Caiphon is closer than before. Feels them bliss and burn in her body like she’s born of them. There’s power surging in her that she knows she’ll pay for later. In mortal flesh that will ache and sag and sear.
But now, she’s fury.
Two purple corporeal tentacles burst through the sand, bearing her weight as she leaps towards Voss, bearing another tentacle from the gem in her wrist, snapping around Voss’ arm.
Or tries to.
He cuts it away too quick for her to notice, react. The silver stinging her to the bone, as if he’d cut off a part of her.
The tentacle drips as if whole as if it bleeds, staining Voss’ silver blade, and the sand.
Distraction.
A plea on her tongue and her hands are whispery white when she takes hold of Voss’ blade with both hands, the blade from tip to handle turning so cold for a moment she wonders if it will break, and then so will he.
But Voss just staggers, the grip on his blade tenuous, still there. Shaken. Sore and brittle. The dusky skin on her fingers paled to ash as she holds the frozen metal, as the skin against sharp, bleeds.
The raindrops freeze as they hit his blade. Their breath quick, impatient clouds, as Vanquish realises she’s pushed him down to one knee. Hers digging onto his thigh, leather tight and hard.
Neither know neither care if it was Vanquish who moved closer to the Voss’ blade, or if he pushed it against her burned chest, neck, first. Frozen silver edge lining a promise–
–bleeding a line of z’var’zai that makes him lick a fang.
“You won’t kill me.” Her words warm the blade, and Voss’ face that almost touches hers, wet lashes frozen from the sword.
“Only because I need you,” he says so quiet she’s not sure how she hears him from the rain the crackle of the blade the beat of her heart and rush of her blood.
“But you want me even more.”
It’s like he just realises where he is, what she’s done. The shape of her hands around his blade, holding tight, the silver cutting her skin. He swears in tir and with a burst of his psionics, pushes her off him, blade, and back, feeling shards of ice crack and fall off the silver, his hand, as he stands.
Vanquish staggers, already tired, and immediately hits him with an eldritch blast in the chest. But he doesn’t move, stunned not at its power, at the peel of voidfire that she sends out he’s so sure, unknowingly, and that his silver sword sucks into its blade, melting the ice, its opalescent surface pulsing once, no more.
Wide eyed, Voss stares at her, as if she’d split him open herself.
And swings his sword.
She dodges, a conjured blade not held by her hand parries the first hit. Brings a smile to Voss’ face as he watches her grab the conjured blade as it drops from the manifested tentacles he slices in two.
“You know I can’t beat you sword to sword,” she says, breath heavy, as their blades collide and her feet dig into the wet sand, hair stuck to her lips.”But I’ll at least make you bleed”
“You challenge me,” hits her blade again, catching the edge of her clothing, wet hair, “even here.”
She slips, her hand wet on her blade’s handle, but hits him with another eldritch blast, skimming off the only exposed skin she can see. Neck, head. He replies with a psionic tendril around her arm, yanking it to the side, forcing her blade to drop. Disperse.
“f*ck-” she pulls the psionic tendril, somehow connected to him, even if there’s no visible tether. Sees him falter, feels him.
But feels his blade against her chest more. Flat. Hard.
And the wall of the hut at her back that she didn’t even know was there as she hits it. Hard.
“Do it.”
Hesitation.
Hesitation and hard as Voss presses blade and himself against her body.
Wonders in what life blade only, not body–
–if any
any
Then kiss. A kiss she knows, has felt.
Those deep, lined lips. Scarred, and fangs so sharp behind. Skin sagging around his mouth in age, in time, and barely a nose to feel.
But now new. Difference, in the way it really feels. Tastes against her tongue.
not just the rain. but the rain and the drops that skim his skin like tears neither have shed for decades, that crest raised spots, marks of Hell, down the walkway of horns and ridged ears, one no more
wetting hair flat, tangled–
cooling the aches so deep in bones of aeons, and the burns of memories she doesn’t want–
sticking lashes together of eyes they open, brief and too close to really see, but for a moment, do
Slow and sure and the drop of his sword to the wet sand; the crawl of his hands against her rain wet sweat wet skin, tangling her hair between fingers, and pulls.
Blood smears her hand as she grips his neck, pulls him down, shaking on the tips of her toes.
Feels herself hoisted, held against the shack wall until she forgets the cold rain, and her skin sizzles with sweat, and the blood of Voss’ bite.
“Out of these clothes,” Voss says, simple, ignoring Vanquish’s quiet ‘obviously’ as he props his sword by a weathered armchair next to a table full of slates and books. Pauses by the unlit fireplace, hand spreading over the stone shelf as he glances to Vanquish, half undressed, dropping her clothes to her feet.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says, untying the sodden silk bra that had started to fray at the seams. A small embroidered word half picked off one of the cups that might have read abbil.
“We need to warm up,” says Voss, peeling off his leather armour. Pauses as he notices a lick of voidfire had grazed the leather, burned a ragged mark. A small mirror to what he sees, feels on her skin. Starts to unlace his trousers only to remember they were already undone. “Do you have any other ideas?”
Thumbs hooked in her underwear, half pulled down her thighs, she stares at Voss, a half smile, threaded in strands of her messy hair. “Something’s off.”
“That’s not an idea.”
And laughs, wiggling out of her underwear, before grabbing a pelt of fur from the bed behind, shivering. “Your hair’s flat.”
Voss breathes out, slow. “Still not an idea.”
“You look strange.”
“Hair flattens when wet. Did they fail to teach you such in your basic istik study?” He pushes aside the pleasant shiver as he hears Vanquish’s light laugh again, and just starts to peel off his wet leather trousers, but–
“Wait. Don’t.”
“You want me to keep my clothes on?” Voss raises a brow; half a smile. “Now who’s being strange.”
Vanquish just laughs, (can’t suppress the shiver this time) tucking her legs under her thighs under the furs. “I have an idea.” And leans over, pulling out a small, purple tinged cube from her satchel. Briefly, the Prism glows from within her satchel as she touches it, but neither her, nor Voss, are in any mood for it right now, she thinks. “This.”
“Thermal cube.” Strides closer, feeling the heat emanate from the small box hovering above her hand as she pulls its barriers down. “Clever.”
“Useful,” and spins it above a single finger, “when you won’t go near fire.”
“Do you just carry that around with you?” he asks, skimming his hand around its warming surface, feeling the cold, wet rain start to dry.
“Usually,” she shrugs, shivers again, “have to. Limited daily use, though. Now my next plan was for you to fill that bath for us, and this will warm the water just nice.”
He’s already holding her hand and cube, warm and pulling it against his wet chest, lines leftover from his harness. She presses the cube against his chest, its shape morphing to that of her hand, the purple glow spreading between skin, skin, like a star.
A drop of water falls from his chin. Sizzles as it hits her hand.
“I’ve not forgiven you,” he says, soft.
“Just get the water,” she says, quiet.
“Where are we?” she asks, drawing the cloth slowly over Voss’ collarbone, dipping along the ridge of bone, counting spots, counting scars, illuminated gently by the thermal cube that bobs on the surface of the water.
“Close enough to Baldur’s Gate,” he says, simple. His arms stretched over the bath’s edge as he looks at Vanquish, above.
“You know the exact range of Orpheus’ power don’t you?” Pulls the cloth up. Further to the fresh wounds on his face, missing ear.
Slow. Careful.
“Of course I do.” Sharp voice, as if the insinuation of anything other an insult.
Vanquish feels him tense as the cloth brushes along the edge of his jaw. Touches his chin first, to the wounds there that almost meet his lip.
“We were never really in danger.” The words are a hush, that almost touch his lips. The cloth does, though, as she wipes away the residue of old blood, dirt. Looks up. “I wasn’t.”
“Are you so sure, rrav’kil?” It feels like a lover's lament around her fingers the way he speaks, claws skimming the surface of the water as she pulls the cloth over his lower lip, along.
“What does that mean?” she breathes, lock of hair limping forward, coiling on his chest.
Voss half smiles, lost behind her cloth. But she feels it against her fingers.
“Tell me,” she demands, as the cloth reaches the wounds on his cheek. Deeper. Sorer.
He tenses. Tries to hide the pain she knows he feels. Fingers stop skimming the water. Still.
“Like I said,” the words are a littler shakier, but still sure, “get me the Hammer, and you will get me.”
More blood, more dirt dug into his wound, lines and time of his skin. And she’s closer, in presence, and to what’s left of his ear. It almost feels like a line to cross. A strange violation she’ll witness, abate.
“That’s not an answer,” she says, soft. “And from what I can see,” he can feel the breath of her words, the slide of her thighs, weight of her body in the lean of her arm, “I already do.”
“Just because I enjoy your body,” a short, sharp pause as her cloth reaches the base of his ravaged ear, “it doesn’t mean you have me.”
She cradles the side of his face, holds it still with claws gentle at the edge of his wet hair, still flat still strange. “Then tell me, what does belonging to someone mean for a githyanki?”
There’s a long, too long pause as Voss considers her question. As he stares up at her from below. At her beauty and remembers her bliss. Wonders then wonders now what it would be like to wake up to this. To say adilshar again and mean it not shape it as a hook in her skin to reel her in. He’d dreamed of her, already. But why wouldn’t he, when she was his answer, to him.
“A different meaning when you’re an istik to githyanki,” comes the quiet confession that he’s not sure he believes anymore.
And she pulls the cloth over the ragged edge of his ear. Careful, but firm. Feeling his pain, almost as if hers. “Are you afraid I would soften you? Ruin you?” she says, feeling his hand clamp against her thigh, involuntarily.
Voss closes his eyes, unsure of the words he really says. “Istik do, yes.” Opens his eyes.
“Me?”
“Toz jala githyanki toz dov’shtil z’varni.”
Vanquish swallows. Soaks in the words as much as the water they sit in. Cradles his ear with cloth with hand, close enough to kiss. “Not getting that translation either, am I,” she says, pulling the cloth over the tip of his wounded ear.
“Pa.”
“I understand that one,” she says with a soft kiss, letting it linger. “I have some powder in my bag,” suggests against his cheek, light and careful, as she feels his hand tighten on her thigh, his breathing hitch.
“Not needed.” Looks away.
“What? Big tough githyanki loves the pain,” laps her tongue against his cheek, along the ridge of a wound. “Other things feel good, too.”
Stares. Stares at her. Doesn’t flinch when her tongue lines the wound, but when the cloth drags against his ear.
“Wait,” she says, “you don’t like being touched on your ears?”
“Aren’t you observant.” Scathing, as he pinches the thickness of her thigh with his claws.
“Ouch. Prick.”
Vanquish just finishes cleaning his wounded ear. But careful. Kind. Runs her other hand over his wet, flattened hair, smooths it down. “It’s barely even an ear anymore,” she says with a teasing smile as Voss makes a small ‘chk’. “Surprised you lasted this long with both.”
Voss stares at the empty, cold fireplace. Enjoys the sounds of Vanquish wringing out the cloth, setting it to the side.
She sits back on her heels, on his legs beneath the water, cloudy with the old salts they’d used lying around in this old cabin. “What happened?”
“I was distracted.” Still stares at the fireplace. Claws skim over the water, again.
“By what?”
Turns to look at Vanquish. Beyond her, to where he knows the Prism sits.
Then remembers her confession, the reason she’s here–
–and for that silver cut line across her skin.
Voss picks up the cloth, dips it in the water and pulls it gentle over her burns. Over the wounds he’d made.
“I was distracted,” he says, touch slow touch not quite sure, “by having what I wanted so close within reach.”
She says nothing. Just lets him clean. An act of intimacy that has made her hold her breath, and slow, she finally lets it out. The warmth skimming over his arm.
Then, she dips her hands between their legs, fingers sliding along the scarred lines of his slit. Slow.
Voss breathes a shuddering breath in–
–out.
“I told you that night,” he pulls the cloth from his bite mark, down the perfect line of his sword, cut into her void burns. Wonders if it will ever heal, if she even wants it to. And looks up, to her odd eyes.“That my weakness was always what I really wanted.”
“Isn’t it our strength, too?” Two fingers in, dragging over the rough ridges of his c*nt, his co*ck already pulled together from two. She’d memorised the way he’d felt. So different than nearly every other material race. Strangeness in skin within, without.
“You’ve lived so long because of it,” she says. “Your age, your strength because of what you want.”
Voss spreads his legs, slow. Watches as she crawls closer, straddles his thin thighs with her own so thick, heavy. Full. Denting wherever they touched. So easy to mark and bleed. It made him f*cking ravenous.
“I know a little something of that,” she drawls against his cheek, kissing the ripple of his spots that are raised.
The cloth is on the floor. He touches her wounds with his hand, now. Washing away whatever blood is left with his skin.
Licks a drop off his finger.
“It’s made me hshar’lak to my people.” Her fingers are deeper. Decadence. Breath heavy. “Sometimes, I forget who I am.”
A kiss. “I barely know who I am, anymore.”
Voss starts, “whoever you are-” but Voss stops. Arches his back off the bath as she pulls his co*ck from his c*nt, rolling her fingers along the ridges, water rippling above.
“What?” she breathes, dragging the tips of his co*ck along the ridges of her c*nt.
And pulls his hand over the wound he’d made, dragging a smear of blood over her burns, cradles her head, fingers tangling in hair.
“Say it-” she hisses, sinking down further on his lap, the tip of his co*ck dragging against the swollen lips of her c*nt.
Handful of her hair and he pulls her to a kiss. Hard and a mess, tasting a faint smear of blood he’d left behind.
“When he’s free,” he says against her lips. “When–” Is it still a lie–
There’s one thing that’s not. That he’d do anything to free Orpheus. To free his people.
But does that anything mean sha va zai one day for a heart that’s not just Orpheus’–
–but hers.
“Better get that Hammer, then,” she breathes, breathes as she sinks down on his co*ck, slow.
Voss looks up, a half smile as she cradles his neck, careful of ears, thumbing the wet strands of his hair that hangs. “Little thief.”
“What’s thief in tir?” she asks, the soft purple of the thermal cube moving with them as she rides. Slow.
“Koth’ana ch’sha,” he confesses, sinking claws into her behind. Moving with her.
“Bit of a mouthful.”
“So are you,” he smears against their kiss.
Fingers drag over her tail. Feels the rough ridges, the way it moves always moves no matter what she does. Feels.
“You’ll just walk right into Hell,” he says, feels the hellblood ridges on her back, “then–”
Drags her teeth over his neck, over the raised shapes of his spots, “find his house,” pinches a spot with a fang, “the Hammer,” and sinks deeper on that word that longing she feels he wants more than to live–
(eyes closed and he’s here, above and a restless lover mostly, sometimes like this. slow and a tease, voss his throne and everything else beneath behind above, theirs)
“Flay that Devil,” she says, the words allure as they shape on his neck, as fingers tangle in his hair as she rides and moves and feels the burn of the cube between their stomachs, “and take what I want.”
(eyes open and she’s here, above and beautiful and something that she wasn’t before. something that she won’t be again. he’d called her adilshar that night and he’ll call her adilshar again. a meaning stuck in a generation nearly dead. a new meaning in those he now wants to free. a new meaning now, in her)
Voss takes her hand.
“I still haven’t forgiven you.”
“I don’t care.”
Pulls her arm between their chests, and holds. Holds it against his heart over the V he’d carved last time as she rides, feels the beat, beat as he looks up, the light beneath barely there, but he doesn’t need it to see her–
–for she’s already there when he closes his eyes.
“Doesn’t that tire you?” asks Vanquish, staring at the flicker of a psionic light, hovering in an empty jar. The colour a deep blue, almost purple, like she’s seen him use when he fights, or f*cks.
“If used too much,” he says, dropping another small orb of psionic light above a dead candle, “too long.”
“Didn’t have a clue you could do this with psionics,” she says, leaning forward, her face a mix of light of the fading cube on the bed, and the jar of psionic light by the bed.
“There’s a lot you istik don’t know about us.”
“You’re not the enigma you think you are.” She’s tucked in a pile of furs, only her head, horns and top of her frizzy hair poking out. Even her tail is tucked under, the constant twitch of it moving the edge of her furs.
Readjusting the furs around his shoulders, Voss glances at her, but his eyes settle on the Prism instead that sits at the bedside. Another light, another strange warmth. An eternity, a moment. A void and bridge, anguish and sha va zai. And the thing that brought her to him.
“I knew that first night I came to you at Sharess,” she confesses. The words slow, quiet, “about the illithid.”
Voss leans against the cold fireplace, lined in the glow of a psionic orb, bluey hues denting the deep lines of his skin.
“Nothing before,” she continues, “but I’m alive because of that–that ghaik. We all are.” She pauses, seeing the Prism’s glow brighten at the corner of her eye. “I almost f*cking died because of Orpheus’ Honour Guard. And I have no doubt he’d have gladly gut me himself if he could.”
“And what do you expect of him?” Simple words from Voss, that just made sense. “He was born into their slavery, like me.” A pause, as he stares ahead. His hair had mostly dried back to a point now. Messy, but there. “That kind of hate is born into your blood. Irreplaceable.”
Vanquish tries to grasp once more the age and life and experience of Voss, but how could the transience of hers even begin to comprehend the weight of his.
She picks at the edge of her furs. Fingers and claws peeking out as she talks. “What of his hate for me, then? Or am I just a filthy istik as you so keep reminding me, gith.”
Something softens Voss.
Maybe defeat. Maybe exhaustion of thousands of years. Maybe–
He sits on the edge of the bed, what warmth is left of the cube bathing against his skin. But that’s not the warmth he really feels when Vanquish’s hands spread over his legs, when she tugs his furs closer, tucking them with hers.
“You are complicit with the ghaik’s actions against Orpehus,” he says, watching her restless touch, “imprisonment upon imprisonment, tsk’va, surely you-”
“I survive, Voss,” fingers over hands, “it’s what I know. You should at least understand that.”
So long a pause. Like it doesn’t matter that the world shakes beneath their feet.
“I do.”
He hears the sea beyond the window, door. Tide high, so close he could step out onto the shore, lie down breathe in, and no more.
She shuffles forward, the tip of her tail nudging under Voss’ thigh. “It’s because of the illithid I’m alive,” she says again, still running her hands over Voss’, retaining what warmth is left. There will be nothing left, soon. “And I like being alive.” It’s a complicated confession for her. And he’s complicated it even more.
“I want you alive, too–” He tries to say more, but it doesn’t come.
“For Orpheus, or yourself?”
He leans in, forehead to hers, aged lines, scars and faded spots dragging against the rough of her horns. “Does it matter in the end?”
She wants it to.
He knows it will, one day.
That line was long scored into the cliff. Crossed. f*cked over the edge, out to sea. Now washed up on the shore they sit as the tide kisses the sand wet with an answer neither of them hears.
Just the roar of the sea, and the beat of your heart on my tongue. Will that beat one day be mine, or will I have to bite out a piece and swallow–
–pretend you're mine mine mine.
Voss she’d blurred into the pillow. Again, again as he’d sunk his head between her c*nt, tongue too busy to talk.
Voss she’d moaned again, his name sounded different in his wounded ear, to the other.
Again she’d said, as he’d leaned over her, breathless, a quiet too long, tongues too still it was time to talk. And again he’d given her. Again, and again.
Then stay she’d said as he’d moved off the bed, too long tucked around her with nothing but the way they breathed. Nothing but bodies, the smell of sex, sweat and the cinnamon in her hair. No , was his simple answer, sleep . What about you she’d asked, and he hadn’t answered, picking up the Prism as he’d left her quiet, alone, and curled his long limbs up on the old weathered arm chair he’d sat in days before, slept in years before.
This wasn’t meant to be a known home, or somewhere of comfort. But somewhere safe. Orpheus was always better at combining the two. Voss understood safe. Practical. Comfort could wait.
His gift of time had given him a definite, at least. Time, did not fix everything.
Voss tries to tuck his long feet between the hard side and cushion, but it hurts his long legs, like every time before, waking up stiff, numb, unable to walk until the feeling returned to the lower half of his body, kneading the feeling back into his muscles.
Something is different this time though as he skims his hand around the hovering Prism.
Glances at the bed where she is curled in a mound of furs.
Two things.
She’s aglow with a dying sphere of his psionics, his head hurting from keeping them alight, the cube’s energy for the day long gone.
And untucks his feet. Lets them hang over the armrest, his body sagging into the armchair as he gently taps the spikes of the Prism with a finger, letting it spin midair before him. For most of his long, arduous life, it had made him. Broke him. Contained what he understood love to be, held the remnants of it when he forgot it. Was his purpose, is his purpose; became the hshar’lak in his head, the truth in his heart. And tonight, his own personal nightlight.
That moment at the Mountain pass–
That night with Vanquish at the cliffside, at Sharess–
–now, Orpheus is distant. Denial, at first. Then reason, when he’d told himself that it had been so long since he’d been within the vicinity of the Prism, had barely stepped inside in centuries (he thinks he thinks). He’d simply forgotten the Prism’s presence, and the Prince’s.
He had an answer, now. And he didn’t know what he’d rather. A ghaik inside, syphoning his Prince’s power to its own means, but keeping her alive and in his bed, between his legs, and acquiring the Hammer–
–or just forgetting the one he loved.
Voss pulls the Prism against the furs on his chest. Holds tight.
Tucks it beneath his furs. Feels the roughness of the metal, the spikes. The false warmth of its glow when he remembers the heat of Orpheus’ chains against his skin that first time he saw them snap around his wrists, the muzzle against his face, eyes wide and afraid.
“Did you sleep?” she asks, picking her fingers through her tangled her.
“Yes,” he lies, pulling on an old dry shirt and trousers. Armour could wait. “Did you?”
“Yeah,” she lies through a yawn, in just her underwear.
They all okay? she asks The Emperor, already knowing the answer. He’d have been an alarm bell in her head at a moment's change. She’d hoped.
Yes.
Vanquish sighs, heavy. The Emperor’s tone not lost on her.
We’ll talk when I’m back at camp, yeah?
Tonight.
Fine.
Voss smooths his hair, wetting the point, the lengths that hang at the side. Vanquish watches, a little skip in her heart as he bends down to check his reflection in an old mirror propped on the mantlepiece, once hung above, the hook rusty, worn.
“My clothes are still a bit damp,” she says, then Voss throws her a dry shirt that she catches. Old. Round neck. Frays and cuts fixed with a precise hand. Runs her fingers over the stitches feeling his touch.
“Can’t help you with the trousers,” he says, glancing down at her from above.
“It’ll do,” and pulls the shirt over her head, inhaling Voss’ scent, heavy. And looks back up at him. “And I should probably go.”
“Good. You need to leave.” Tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as he steps forward, his crotch level with her face, “if you are to get the Hammer, I need to prepare,” thumb under her eye, “now.”
Vanquish looks away. “Walk first? Bit stiff. This bed is sh*t,” she lies. The bed was one of the most comfortable things she’d laid in, in weeks. The fight and f*cked against the cabin wall yesterday ached deep in her bones instead.
And she was glad.
She feels Voss sigh. Heavy. Unsure if frustration, relief. A purpose to steady or cover the thousand words he wants to say, but won't. “The tide is out,” and pulls back, trailing claws over her cheek.
The beach is different from yesterday. No pelting rain. No violence of waves that could crash under her feet, pull away her power. No roar and ruin or anger to bring you to your knees.
A tide that creeps. The whispery edge of its stretch barely sound. Stillness over the sand that it wets, shifts, ripples to a new shape that will never be again.
She has to take more steps for every one he does. He notices, and slows. The difference in their footprints in the sand when he glances back both surprise him, and not. Deep claw marks, rough edges. But one angular, one softer; one big enough to devour two of hers.
She lets her tail drag along the sand. A strange stillness he’s rarely seen in the way it moves. A long line dug in the sand behind her that makes him want to smile.
“You feel comfortable here,” she says, staring ahead, pulling a strand of hair from her lips.
Looks up at the sea wind bristle his once perfect hair and how he doesn’t seem to care. At the salt and spray dappled on ancient skin.
He says nothing, just stares ahead, walks ahead, sandals hanging from two fingers.
Then, “as do you.”
“Mother was a pirate. Sea was another home.” Flick of her tail, before it settles back on the sand. “What’s your excuse?”
“I just like it,” eyes still ahead.
“Sure.”
It was more truth than she knew. Why he liked it? Maybe another day, another lifetime.
“Does Orpheus like it?”
At that, Voss turns to her, a half, curious smile curling his scarred lips. “More now that he’s bald.” Turns away.
“Wait,” she laughs, airy, “what was his hair like?”
“Ask him when he’s free.”
“Maybe I will,” she says, quiet.
A thousand other questions, promises, accusations bounce between silent lips as they walk. She’s so sure she can taste them, hear them in a language she doesn’t know, Voss mouthing them as if in practice, but the sea just washing away what she thinks she hears to the swell of a wave and the kiss of the tide.
Voss cuts her off. Footsteps breaking the line as he strides to a tall black stone, cut by wave cut by tide, the wind quiet here, in a pocket of peace. Hauls sword off, leans back to stone, and pulls out his small tin of smokes, clicking open the lid. Holds it out, offering her one already rolled.
Clicks the lid shut as he takes one for himself. Lights one of those blue flamed matches, the match sizzling in the water as he takes a draw. Then leans down over sword to Vanquish, lit tip to hers to light, hazy and sweet, patchouli and salt, the smell of her c*nt still on his lips from a quick five minutes as they dressed.
She relaxes her back against the rock face as she exhales, his sword a silver buffer between. The stone is cool, and the tide is almost at their feet. She slips her tail under his sword, and around his leg, grains of sand blurring the leather.
Turns his foot in the sand towards her.
“How,” he starts, takes another inhale, exhale, “how were you able to freeze my sword?”
Vanquish shrugs, exhaling a draw. “Incantation. Plea to Caiphon. Done.”
Voss flicks the ash. “Githyanki silver swords are…different. Resistant to magic such as you demonstrated.”
“Guess I’m special,” she smiles behind a cloud of smoke, tapping the end of her tail against his leg. “But…honestly, I or well, Caiphon,” taps the gem on her wrist, side of her head, “feels something in your sword, and I don’t know what.” Looks up at Voss, rim of the sun shadowing his face to the burn of his smoke. “Felt familiar.”
Rests a hand on the hilt of his sword, taller than Vanquish. A pause, as he considers, finger rubbing along the handle. Then talks. “Our silver swords are made with a shard of the Living Gate. In essence, doorway to the Far Realms. Home, and origin, of illithids–”
“–and Caiphon,” says Vanquish, the tip of her tail batting against Voss’ leg.
Voss nods, taking another draw. Unsure why he’s leaning closer to her.
Unsure why he’s still talking.
“My sword…” a pause, thumb caressing its handle, “is the oldest silver sword still in existence.” Watches her draw her teeth over her bottom lip. “And one of the first ever made.”
Watches her touch the wound from it. Wonders if it will ever heal. Wonders if neither of them sought to cut, but the void fire in her did instead, home calling home.
She glances at the sword, “as old as you?” Breathy words.
“Older.” Flicks away ash. “The shard of the Living Gate in my sword is larger, more potent than any other silver sword that exists now.” He stares at the void gem fused to her wrist. Sees the way it swirls and roils more the closer she holds it next to his silver sword.
And she can feel it too.
It’s less formless than before. It’s like a window to the Astral Sea, as if staring into the gem, through her skin, distorted, that you could maybe conceptualise a piece of the Far Realm in your mortal eye.
But this time, it coalesces to an eye. Something like it, at least. A thin, black strip down the middle that quivers, surrounded by constellations of colour.
“It watches,” says Voss, staring at the gem. At the single strip that flicks. Fixes on Voss for long enough to say, I see. Voss swallows, uncomfortable at the bearing sensation of Caiphon. Pressure, behind his eyes. Pressure, at the back of his head.
Voss blinks. Inhales.
She draws a finger along the gem, over the worn, golden filigree, a claw picking out grains of sand. “You’re nosy aren’t you, Caiphon,” she says, feels the black line flick and fix on her.
Before back to the sword.
Vanquish twists, turns her hand around, as if Caiphon wraps around her skin itself. “I felt something that night in Sharess’ next to your sword. Like Caiphon’s eye was closer, or like I was walking one of their waking dreams a little too long.” Looks up at Voss. “But I wasn’t.”
Vanquish glances back down at the gem feeling Caiphon withdraw, their eye gone, the constellations faded. One remains, though, the one that they shape for her.
His smoke sizzles as he flicks the blunt into the edge of the tide. Exhales slow, and haze. “You’re the only istik that’s ever touched it.”
Inhales, slow. “What sh*t.” Exhale. Spreads her hand over the stone next to the sword’s edge, claw so close to catch.
Voss just smiles as he picks her hand from the stone, twins her fingers with his, and kiss.
“Have you forgiven me yet?” she whispers.
His silver sword is cool against her cheek. Comfortable. And it hums, soft. Music, in a kiss goodbye.
The portal flickers at her back, the other side her camp.
“So, do you know what this Hammer looks like?”
“No.” He’s back in armour, and far behind him on the cliffside is Qudenos, staring down at her with a strange look of amusem*nt and contentment. She thinks.
Vanquish reaches out, pulling tighter a strap of his armour. He bristles at the touch–
“You do this yourself all the time?” she asks, watching Voss pick up a greave and start to fasten.
“Not always,” he says, sat on the bed, foot propped on the edge of the empty bath. “I have kith’raki, sarth, fresh warriors who would gladly dress me from bare to armour.”
Vanquish twists the bottom of Voss’ shirt, tying it at her waist. It’s nearly to her knees. “Let me guess, you still prefer dressing alone.”
Glances up at Vanquish, then back to his greave, pulling the last strap.
She picks up the armour he wears on his knees, and bends to hers.
Slow, left knee first. Over the leather trousers he wears, strapped down with more leather. Hands skimming over places she’s touched before sat before bit before. And pulls, secure.
Looks up, and fastens the other, hands skimming a little more over his thighs, legs spreading wider as she moves, grinds against the metal of his greave. And pulls the armour strap, tight.
Voss leans down, pinching her chin. “This is why I like to dress alone.” A pause, as she starts to laugh, quiet. “It at least gets done.” She laughs they kiss they–
She pats his breast plate secure, a small smile as she skims a hand over the armour, the gem. He’d let her dress him with the rest of his armour. Shown her where, how, as she’d pretended she didn’t know.
“Okay, great. So I’ll just raid Raphael’s house and grab every hammer I see just in case. Very githyanki of me.”
Voss is closer, the song of his armour making her shiver. “I think you’ll know it when you see it.”
They stare at each other for a while.
A while, that’s a little longer.
The portal crackles, letting them know time is running out.
“You're a distraction–” he whispers, cupping her chin, claws scratching lines he hopes aren’t the last.
“You're danger,” she breathes, wants to bleed.
“Don’t die,” and lets her go.
“Don’t lose your other ear.’
Then she’s gone.
Heavy steps as Qudenos lands behind him in the sand. Folds his wings. “You look at her a lot like someone else we know.”
Voss stiffens, stares at the remnants of the portal that sinks to the sand, makes his skin shiver. “I see her, and I see him free.”
A puff of smoke behind him. Ruffles his hair; kicks up a cloud of sand. “Anything for t’lak’var, for him,” says Qudenos, repeating their own personal hymn as he dips his head down for Voss to climb.
“Anything-”
but you are something, now
a single star is
uttered, and i
think
of you
in the rain 18-21, by E. E. Cummings
