Chapter Text
So we saved him and his family, all. Except for a little girl, who remained behind.
— Quran 26:170–171, modified.
Salt water stings your eyes as you keep them open under the pool, the cuts in your skin pinpricks at the edges of each laceration as though the salt itself does the busy task of sewing your wounds shut. Drearburh’s dim LEDs make the water dance in front of you, the ripples barely visible between solid shadows of our quarters, with only strips of white slicing through the surface. Parting the grays of the world around you, forcing you through the light like a spray of blood spilling after the cut flesh that a sword leaves behind. A slash of brightness enough to make you look around the abyss you have absorbed yourself into: the ribbons of darkness at the edge of your vision giving the illusion of movement, making you wonder if they are here to help the salt sew your flesh together or if they simply wish to witness the final stages of your transformation into a statue of salt.
You endure the pain, understanding whatever uncomforts you suffer you have given her a thousand fold. You have never asked for mercy before, nor will you today. You’d ask for forgiveness if you truly thought it would enforce any difference on the end results of your actions. Of ours also.
You have always been your House’s Keeper.
And far weaker of spirit than your mother and I could have ever foreseen. You would debase yourself at her feet merely for the touch of her sword, what lengths would you truly go to have that bru̸t̵e̷’̸s̵ ̴h̸a̴n̴d̵s̵ a̸̰̅ŕ̷̘ỏ̴͍ǘ̴͙n̸̳̈d̷̞̎ y̶̬͇̐͆̍̈́ơ̵͚̙̬̠͖̩̈́͊̏ͅư̸̛̺͉͈̈́̌̋̕r̶̳͂͒̂̈́̎͐͜͠ ̵̨̠͈̞͊́̋̇͗͋̍͜t̶͖̯̟͊ḧ̵̲̬̖͍̮̼́͒̈́̎͐͊r̴̛͓̣̫̼̞̫̾͝ͅo̸͚̤̍̂͋̍—̵̨̳̝͔̂
Harrow shot out of the water, scrambling out of the pool as fast as her soaked through habits would allow. Heart racing a mile an hour, Harrowhark eyed the silk-black water glisten like a thousand diamonds catching the sunlight as it slowly settled back into the mimicry of a bad painting of Drearburh’s night sky.
At the far edge of their rooms, Priamhark and Pelleamena lay exactly where Harrow had left them after the day’s last sermon: laying on their own beds, in pretense of sleep. Resisting the urge to double-check their positions, she gathered the outermost layers of her clothing, clicked off the lights to the rooms and closed the doors behind her, refusing to look back, measuring her steps in her head making sure they were evenly distributed and unhurried, hoping she would not run into anyone until she crossed to her rooms.
Attending her cuts was a measure of simple thalergetic reallocation and bandages. The saltwater bath had done much to disinfect her injuries, Harrow would only need to dress the wounds and let her body do the rest of the healing on its own.
Dead tired, a quick sonic and a change of clothes later she was ready to retire after her night prayers when a knock came to her door, accompanied by the gruff voice of her Captain.
“Harrowhark, we need to talk.”
Removing one of her earrings, Harrow sprouted a skeleton to open the door for Aiglamene as she settled herself behind her desk. Lighting the kerosene lamp beside her and slipping her reading glasses on, Harrow shuffled a few documents she had reviewed earlier in the day over to her.
As the door opened with a tired metal groan, Harrowhark made a show of raising her eyes to her Captain, removing her glasses from atop her nose to let them hang around her neck on a little silver chain connected through both tips.
“Captain.” She nodded for Aiglamene to take a seat opposite her, her construct silently bringing over a chair for her guest. “What do I owe this visit?”
“You hurt her.” Harrow kept her expression coolly neutral, as if she could possibly misunderstand who her referred to. “Bad.”
Leaning in, both elbows on her desk, Harrow feigned confusion.
“And you are worried, I presume?”
Steeling her voice, Aiglamene’s eyes narrowed, gleaming twin daggers under lamp light “A broken nose, dislocated shoulder both which she’s had to reset herself, swelling bruise on her left eye—”
“Her own fault after breaking the terms of our wager.” Said Harrow, immediately dropping the act.
“—Four broken ribs, a sprained ankle, her sword hand completely mangled —”
“Captain…” Harrow warned.
“Her whole arm in a cast, upper body mottled with cuts and bruises, her solar plexus the perfect purple shape of Crux’s—”
“ Captain, know your place! ” Harrow’s voice roared, her desk chair scraping loudly against the cell’s floor. In a momentary lapse of concentration, the construct by the door shuddered before Harrow could seize control of it again. Aiglamene was a good two heads taller than Harrow, but seating down with the Reverend Daughter abruptly stood up, they met at eye level. They could both listen to the echo of Harrow’s outburst reverberating against the corridors of Drearburh, taking her voice farther and farther away.
Harrow breathed in, counting the seconds until she could no longer hear the ghosts of her violence. Breathing out as Aiglamene started over again.
“Do you have any idea the medical costs this tantrum of yours caused?” Her face never changed, Aiglamene always wore the look of the perpetually tired, only now she wore it with a locked jaw and frustration in her voice. Concern though, this she wore on her fingers, clutching the grip of her rapier, ever dutifully sheathed by her left side.
For this transgression, Harrow decided to pull the rope around her tighter. She sneered.
“I’m sorry Captain, I was under the impression your role in this House was to protect its scions, not the rat living under my boot.”
Aiglamene’s knuckles whitened. Predictably, upon caring for Griddle, she made a mistake.
“This cannot stand Harrow, the Marshal went too far. You can’t—”
The Reverend Daughter seized her opportunity.
“Can’t what, Captain? You will recall your recruit challenged the rules of this House. The place that raised her, clothed, fed and put her to bed. It is your failings as a disciple to bring Nav to heel that debase her in my presence. You, doubly so.”
She wished to protest Harrowhark knew it. Maybe put those preoccupied fingers to use and run the sword through her middle. It would be the logical action. Some days Harrow questioned what exactly kept Aiglamene tame, what her parents had of her to take obeisance to the Ninth as reward. It was in these moments, that she came closest to understanding, and yet, by the end of the scolding, her Captain would still grace her with the other slapped cheek and remove her hands from her sword.
As she did so now.
“If you won’t take control of that ginger menace, the Marshal will. Is that your wish?”
Jaw sewn impossibly shut, with results almost as good as a Sewn Tongue itself, Aiglamene managed a shake of her head.
“Then remove yourself from my presence and try again. And do better, or else Crux will. Tell the Sisters they are forbidden from wasting medicine on her, they will set her bones back and leave her to her own healing.” At this, Harrow sat back down, shooing the Captain with a gesture.
The construct went to take the chair and tuck it away in a corner, so there would be no dawdling. Counting down the seconds, Harrow waited until Aiglamene was at the door to say, at last:
“One more thing Captain. You are forbidden from visiting Gideon as she heals, report only to her when I allow you to. Dismissed.”
Aiglamene’s posture was nothing but ramrod straight as she exited, but Harrow could tell defeat by her demeanor.
Once the door fell resolutely shut with a groan and a click, Harrowhark slumped forward, forehead hitting her desk hard. Somewhere to her right the construct clattered down to the floor, in a rain of bonedust and ribs.
Ribs…
“ Fuck Griddle.” She groaned into the denied food forms requisitioned for the Ninth. “Did you have to piss off the Marshal again now of all times?”
Harrow lay there, the wall clock ticking the minutes away leisurely into midnight. Her neck crimping and head pounding for more reasons than her desk headbutt. Eventually, she raised her neck, wincing as it protested in pain. A single form stuck to her forehead as she rose from her chair.
Ungluing the paper from her face, Harrow took a few minutes shuffling through documents until she collected the medicine catalog. It’d be a full two weeks before a ship with a resupply would come up to the outer rings and Gideon needed analgesics now . At the height of winter they’d only have enough stock to keep their elderly uncomfortable at best and plagued by arthritic pain at worst if the heating system decided to break down again this year. Without mentioning a cough bug going around Drearburh since a few days back…
Sighing in defeat, Harrow made a mental note to pen a letter to the Seventh tomorrow, to requisition enough medicine for their elder populace (the whole of the Ninth at this point) to withstand a flu wave. Of all Houses, they’d understand the most the necessity of prolonging the stasis of human atrophy.
Without bothering to sweep the remnants of her construct, Harrow threw herself facefirst in bed, her neck and head already protesting the abuse. Ignoring her body, she flopped around belly first until she lay on her back and removed her rosary from the bedpost, wrapping them around her wrists, fingers in position.
With closed eyes and mouth shut, she put her fingers through the motions of prayer, mind — for once — blissfully blank of all thoughts but her Beloved.
She communed with The Body until her fingers cramped, upon which point she was forced to stop and wrap a blanket around herself like a particularly defeated burrito. After getting some feeling back into her hands, she attempted to finish the last two passages of the Resurrection Rites before the day fully caught up with the rest of her own body and she, at last, fell asleep.
Passed out in bed, rosary still wrapped around her wrists, Harrowhark dreamt of red, gold and the blues of the Tomb.
“Let’s cut a deal.” Nav interrupts her, full of teeth and bravado. “If you beat me, fair and square, I’ll happily attend to your sermons for the rest of the month and you won’t have to send Aiglamene to get me kicking and screaming. How about it?”
Harrow considered it, she considered the hand she knew to be warm extended at her, she considered the thick fingers of her hand, the bronze skin of her arms. Harrow considered Gideon’s arms.
Harrow abruptly stopped considering anything.
She took a second longer than she would have liked staring at Gideon’s golden eyes, but Harrowhark needed to make sure she could trust her voice before saying, “To the cry of mercy, no weapons.”
“No necromancy .” Gideon shot back like she had just remembered something important, the amber of her irises clearing up when she stopped looking at a point on Harrow’s face lower than her eyes.
Harrow’s heart hammered in her chest for no clear discernible reason. She had accounted for that request, if she was challenging Griddle to bare herself to her, Gideon would demand her open neck too. There was no cause for her physiology to make a scene out of it. “Deal.”
Irreductible and wholly unconvinced, the ginger menace opened her mouth once more.
“Promise.”
“Griddle for fu—”
Good as it was to hear the Lady of the Ninth swear, Gideon was not having it. “Promise on your honor to the Tomb or no dice. You can drag his buttholyness Crux to shitcan me ‘till I’m a purple stain on the floor and seat me through all the sermons with broken legs, mangled arms and me making fart noises with my mouth throughout the whole thing, or--” She paused. She made Harrow wait. Made her endure the slow grin running through her lips and the delicious glint of smugness solidifying in her eyes.
Harrow hated to be made to wait. Her quick paced heart agreed. She told it to shut it.
“--you do this and if you win (which I have no idea how you’re planning to by the way, you have, like, negative biceps), if you win you’ll have my undying obedience for a month.”
Harrow’s eyebrows shot up incredulously. “A month?”
Gideon nodded wholeheartedly, reminiscent of a puppy begging attention from their owner, her shit eating grin having yet to recede an inch. The emerging heat in Harrow’s stomach dropped somewhere to her navel.
“Yop, a whole month of bossing me around. And I’ll go to mass willingly. Those are the things that get you off at night right?” She pitched her voice higher, “ Ohhh Gideon! Fingerblast me Gideon! Quote me the parable of Naveal Gideon--! ”
“Shut up!” Harrow shouted, hands twitching at her sides. She was sorely tempted to just raise her skeletons and get this over with, determined to purge Griddle’s mocking groans from her mind. When she just started up again, louder of all godforsaken things, Harrowhark shrieked “Deal!” without much regard for future Nonagesimus.
Fuck.
Gideon immediately unsheathed her two hander.
Shitfuck--
Before Harrow could open her mouth in protest or call on her army, the ginger motioned to her wrists with the sword. “Your jewelry, sweet cheeks.”
Harrow hesitated.
“I did say, no necromancy.” Gideon taunted.
Scoffing but complying, she removed her bone bracelets, choker, earrings as well as all bone fragments inside her robes’ pockets. She tossed them all to the floor between them, which made Gideon flinch and raise her sword, adjusting her posture to attack.
After a beat, when no constructs were forthcoming from the seeds of bone, Gideon slowly laid down the sword tip pointed at Harrow, giving her a somewhat embarrassed smile. As embarrassed as a girl who contrabanded pornography could be, Harrow figured.
“Sorry, force of habit.” Gideon said sheepishly.
Harrow made an annoyed ‘get on with it’ gesture that had Gideon stomping out all the bone fragments until they were a soft white powder against the drilled dirt of Drearburh’s corridors, after which she unstrapped her Zweihander’s sheath from her back and tossed it out of reach. The sword, she carefully laid on top of it, glinting in the afternoon lights of the drillshaft. The sun would be coming down soon, Harrow would need to get on with this quickly if she wanted them to be in time for evening mass.
Removing her cloak, Nav rolled up her shirtsleeves. She took her eyes off of Harrow for a second. Confidence made her sloppy, she assumed Harrow would pose a lesser threat without her necromancy — a true enough assumption — but Harrow had the element of surprise here and not a single backdown bone inside her.
So, without much waiting for Gideon to get her bearings to call for a fair fight, Harrowhark ran full pelt towards the other girl, zero hesitation, tackling the ginger to the ground.
Despite her better efforts to disprove a healthy seventy percent of statements coming out of Gideon, Harrow had to admit that much of her advantage in this fight lay on the singular effort of catching Griddle off guard. She could never hope to overpower Nav like this: an open fistfight without her necromancy was idiocy of the extremely masochistic at best and a deeply suicidal tactic at worst. Her chances would not improve in due time either, she had to either submit Gideon fast or pray she could create a big enough distance and stay outside of reach until either her Captain or Crux would find them performing the world’s most violent and gothic game of chicken and put a stop to it.
Additionally, her chances of physically besting Gideon were, admittedly, laughably bad. Holy shit, so bad. Negative, as per the ginger’s own words.
So maybe she had miscalculated her strategies a little.
“FUCK!” Gideon agreed, as their bodies hit the floor of the drillshaft.
Sprawled beside each other, Harrow’s torso hit Gideon’s stomach during their fall, the throbbing in her head hinting at a potential headbutting collision. Their legs were impossibly tangled together and she felt more than saw the scrapes when their bodies careened to a stop. Dust filled their nostrils and Harrow was pretty sure there was a huge stamp of white face paint imprinted on Gideon’s left side of her neck.
Harrow’s calm retort of “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all day, Griddle” did nothing for her appearances of being in control. The moment Gideon shook the (proverbial and literal) cobwebs from herself, she was already starting over to Harrow, who — for her part was running on mental fumes already, zero plans head empty — immediately scrambled to use her body as a battering ram a second time, landing herself squarely on Gideon’s lap.
Upon which point her best wild rabid raccoon impression came about.
Gideon, trying her damndest to leverage her knees so she could kick Harrow off of her, took an elbow to her left eye, several swipes from Harrow’s gremlin claws, kicks to the stomach and a whole ass punch (thumb tucked in, the idiot) that left her eardrums ringing. It was only when the Reverend Daughter managed to punt her tits that caused Gideon to lose it, howling “FUCK OFF NONAGESIMUS”, grabbing the necromancer by the armpits as if she were a particularly nasty black cat throwing a tantrum, hauled her over her shoulders and finally picked herself off the floor.
Kicking her legs aimlessly and refusing to be impressed by Nav’s core strength, Harrow shrieked a brief “PUT ME DOWN YOU OAF mfflmmm --” before Gideon covered her mouth, being chomped down on almost as soon as it made contact with her lips. Gideon’s screaming profanities echoed throughout the tunnels making Harrow briefly wonder how long until anyone would start noticing their absence. Using what little dexterity she still possessed — on account of being carried as a sack of potatoes — Harrow managed to wiggle herself in Gideon’s grasp, arms a vice-like grip on the ginger’s neck and shoulders, thrashing about attempting to right herself on top of the girl.
“You goddamn piss drunk worm stop--” a heavy thump interrupted Gideon, “STOP KNEEING ME-- SHIT!”
It took Harrow a boot to the stomach and three knees to Gideon’s face, one above her right eyebrow, one to her nose and a third square into her teeth (although Harrowhark doubted she did it with enough force to actually break anything… well, maybe the nose) before she could get an upper hand and sit herself on Gideon’s shoulders, the skirts of her mass clothes obscuring her view. Still being powered by adrenaline alone — with her brain leaving the premises shortly after Nav attempted a moaned impression of Harrow’s sex voice —, she dropped her legs to Gideon’s waist, circling her arms back to Nav’s neck and mounted Gideon’s back in the precise appearances of an oversized voidling leech attempting not to fall off of a very enraged red bull.
Not unlike a Third’s torada if she were being honest.
Pressing on her windpipe she could tell by Nav’s laboring breath and wheezing that she wasn’t giving her nearly enough space for breath.
“Give in, Griddle.” Harrow squeezed her arms tighter, the heel of her boots crushing Gideon’s ribs. Nav went down to a knee with the force of the constriction, coughing and gasping. “Quit it you big bear, let me win.” Breathless, whispered against the shell of her ear.
That, Harrow would admit to herself later, was her second mistake.
Like a second life, Gideon staggered to her feet, leaving deep gouges on the soil with her steps, dragging them sluggishly, but resolutely. Too late, Harrow realized what she meant to do.
Using the necromancers' same tactics against her, Nav dashed laterally through the tunnel, turning around at the very last moment, crushing Harrow against the wall. It was with the audible crack! of Harrow’s skull against stone that she crumpled to the floor, unmoving, but mouth open gasping like a fish, with her eyes bulged open.
Gideon slid tiredly to the floor, offhand massaging her throat, spitting phlegm and saliva down the corridor. She had to admit: ballsy move by the bone gremlin. She never saw it coming, didn’t think the high and mighty mistress of gloom had it in her. Two points for Nonagesimus.
Trying to move made her world spin for a second, grunting made her whole face light up in sharp pain. Experimentally she attempted to exhale through her nose.
“Fuck!” Yep, broken.
She ran her tongue through her teeth, checked them with her with her hand, pincering them between thumb and forefinger. The bitching ache in her jaw aside, they seemed to be intact. Spitting on the floor a second time made the dirt turn a brackish copper, which meant she had a cut somewhere inside her cheek. Tongue maybe? She couldn’t tell. Everything inside her mouth hurt from Harrow’s knees earlier and the throbbing pain going from nasal bone to temple made everything suck a thousand times over.
This was really not the shape she was aiming to be on for tonight. She hoped this attempt at cutting a deal meant Harrow wasn’t in on it yet. Though. if she was, she’d need to kick Gideon’s ass much much harder than this if the goth noodle aimed to stop her. Bruises and a broken nose were a piece of cake. She’d have to fuck her legs permanently to have Gideon stop trying. And even then, she’d just find another way to haul ass. Her arms were great anyway, she could hold her own weight on chin ups for two minutes, she for sure could just drag her limp lower body around.
“Harrow-- Harrow! Oh good you’re still breathing. Can you tell how many fingers I have up?” Righting herself properly this time, Gideon limply made her way to where the necromancer lay, she had moved enough to sprawl on her back, arms by her side like a cross, black eyes emptily taking in Drearburh’s ceiling, but she had made eye contact when Gideon called and was breathing regularly, if not machine-gun fast.
Dear lord, her cardio sucked.
She leaned in closer. “Come on, how many fingers? I can’t make you submit if you have a concu--” She roared as Harrowhark abruptly grasped and squeezed Gideon’s broken nose with all her might, twisting it further along the bridge, sinking her caked-in mud filled nails deep, scratching down crescent moon gouges to her bleeding and blooming purple skin.
As far as contests go, Harrow never had a snowball’s chance in hell. She knew that going in. She thought, at the very least, she could cause enough damage to surprise Griddle and wait on reinforcements. She had found Gideon close to evening mass and upon either hers or Nav’s tardiness the Marshal would come looking for them, all Harrow had to do was last long enough to put an end to this myopic pantomime.
And yet she had:
- a) grossly overestimated her capacity to keep Gideon at bay.
- b) underestimated Gideon’s physical prowess (of which she had plenty firsthand experience with already).
But, perhaps most crucially:
- c) forgot how good it felt to fluster her whipping girl.
So yes she might have been fighting for the upper hand before, but it wasn’t until now Harrowhark understood to truly be in danger. Now that she could fully see fury in those yellow eyes, where before they sparked with annoyance and contempt, or how before where Griddle’s hands reached her thighs to support Harrow in her shoulders, now they became claws encircling her neck. A full warm palm of Gideon’s held her neck in place, with the other hand gripping her hip in place, thighs bracketing one of Harrow’s legs but the entire torso pinning her completely to the ground. Everything about Nav was just so big , she dwarfed Harrow completely, a minute shadow cast by a far brighter Sun. It was hard to keep stock of where she began and Gideon ended, they were entangled in flesh, chain and breath.
To Harrowhark, it always seemed to be so.
Pinning the necromancer’s hips with her weight, Gideon took her iron-hot hand from Harrow’s hips, grasping both of the girl’s wrists. With impressive strength she single handedly ripped Harrow’s fingers from her broken nose, immediately pinning them above her head, rendering all of Harrowhark’s assault null and void.
In matters such as these, the necromancer thought deliriously, were the reason why where Gideon Nav was concerned, Harrow found she could very rarely pace herself in the girl’s company.
“You wanna see how far down I can sink, bitch?” She growled, pressing the palm of her hand
down on Harrow’s windpipe.
Gasping quietly, Harrowhark pressed back against the hand around her throat, baring her teeth at Gideon in a hiss.
“Say you give” Large hands squeezing harder, a strangled choke but ultimately the shake of a black head of hair. She tried for a second time, starting the pressure around her fingertips, outside in. Gideon could feel Harrow’s jugular jump against her skin.
“ Give. ” She warned, voice hardened.
Harrow spat at her face, face contorted in a snarl, eyes resolute. “Shove your sword up your ass, Griddle.”
“Kinky”
And with a smile of the crescent moon on Drearburh during clear nights, Harrow’s slave descended to meet her like a star collapsing into itself, a supernova in the making. Gideon’s teeth at her throat poised to rip her apart.
Harrow kind of lost her shit here, even she had to admit it.
The scream she was aiming for died on her throat, replaced instead by a moan coming from somewhere past her vocal chords, from her soul Harrow would say if she were right of mind. Her cunt throbbed, all seven faces of the Hydra she named desire roaring in her mind, let it go let go, ̸̢̩͖͍͐̇̋̓l̴̖̫͘e̸̡̖̲͝t̵̙͋̑ ̴̦͔̰̈͂g̵͓̹͙̽̚ṏ̸̯́ ̸̜͍̋͛̓͋L̸̥̟̝̝͛Ẹ̸͐T̶̖̘̑͘ ̷̻͙͉̊̃G̷̗̥̃͒Ö̶̙͓̇͜ ̴̛̰̫̔̃I̸̝̐̐̕Ṇ̷̪̞̕ͅV̷̧̠͛̋̽Ȋ̷̢̘̗̂T̶͓͉͗͠Ę̴̝̠̭͐ ̸͔̘̋H̸̝̳̙̑̂̄̒Ĕ̴̡̦̜̋̓Ȓ̷̜̦̦̊ ̷̩͖̣̦͆̾̚Į̴̲͎̗̅̇N̴̦͋̋̓͆!̴͓̗̻͈͗̽
Surprise crossed Gideon’s features. And just like that, proximity ruined Harrowhark’s carefully crafted, cruel lies. The ginger rumbled like a cat, forcing Harrow’s chin up and sideways so her hand encircled the complete meat of the girl’s neck. Gideon licked her lips—
—and brushed them against her necromancer’s ear.
“I get it now.” She murmured slow and monstrous, “You’̶̡̩̠̤̆̊̏͊͛̽̍r̶̢̥̞̔̓̒͊̈́̓͝͝e̷͉̫͖͆̾̽͒́̿ ̴̡̗̘̻̭͔̱̎̈́î̴̛̱̘̭͍̝̗̇̉̾̀͠ṋ̶̭́̎̔͆͛͆͜͠ṱ̵̗̫̺̎͒͌̔o̴͈͓̝̘̘̠͒̚ ̸̨̥̰̠̮̏̐̊͑̂̂̂ͅͅt̵̩͖̦͎̼͎̅͂͛̈́͐̄̈́͠h̷͇͆̈̑̀̐͝͝is.”
The denial Harrow attempted to form died on strangled moans when Gideon forced her thigh between Harrow’s legs, squeezing her neck in time with her first thrust. The gasps reaching her ears echoed cavernously around her skull — intoxicated and raw — shocked Harrowhark into silence, forcing her mouth shut with a clack of her teeth. Locking her jaw together, Harrow threw a nasty stare up towards her captor.
They made eye contact, Gideon intentionally seeking her necromancer’s gaze. The triumph in the line of her mouth, the lazy self-assurance she carried around her shoulders, the blown out rim of obsidian around the crown of gold of Gideon’s black hole eyes. Harrowhark never thought she’d damn the day she could no longer see the yellow of Gideon’s eyes. No salvation was forthcoming.
Harrow’s argument was proved true when her ruin, severing the distance between them, chose to connect their bodies by the press of their tongues, yielding more flesh so all of Harrow would light aflame from inside out. She had no free hands which to comb through Griddle’s hair, no leverage to lift her neck to deepen the kiss, her legs just as pinned to the ground by hard muscle the same as her torso. There was nothing to be done except lay there and take whatever abuse Gideon would comply her with.
If the minute grinding of her hips were left uncontested, maybe she could herself believe such victimizing lies.
“ Mmm--ah! ” Breaking off the kiss with a filthy wet sound, Gideon took a second to readjust on top of Harrow, eyes casting about her form, raking down to her chest. Panting, her necromancer had the wherewithal to attempt a second round of thrashing around before Gideon, irreversibly, put her mouth over one of her nipples and sucked hard .
Harrowhark’s yelp of surprise quickly receded into moans as Gideon lapped insistently her hardened nub.
Moaning over a mouthful of Harrow’s breasts, Gideon’s formed slithering on top of her as a boa constrictor over a mouse, the Reverend Daughter’s eyes rolled up in ecstasy, catching movement approaching from down the corridor. The hulking shadows of her Marshal, the smaller but no less imposing figure of her Captain and a third, farther down still, that she would recognize its silhouette even half blind and crazed out of her mind as she was with Gideon’s thrice cursed tongue upon her.
The Body with her shackles and sword glinting in candlelight and starnight. Her bare footsteps mixed with the clicking sounds of chains being dragged behind her. All three stopped at the edge of the cavern of the drillshaft, peering into Harrow’s defilement.
Somewhere above her — or maybe deep within her engorged flesh, she couldn't tell anymore, her cavalier seemed to be everywhere at once — Gideon howled a feverish laugh, forcing their eyes to meet.
And went in for the kill.
“Did you just get wetter Nonagesimus?”
She managed not to check up on Griddle for the better part of the afternoon, post midday mass and communal lunch. Harrow attempted to go back to her quarters to get word to the Seventh but only managed to scratch out a couple drafts before her mind inevitably wandered back to Aiglamene’s words.
She’s hurt. Bad.
Before finally caving in and visiting Gideon’s quarters, Harrow took a walk to her parents' rooms. She would need to make her way to the Tomb later in the day to retrieve the Mother and Father’s praying body and puppeteer them back to their own quarters. As long as they were seen at the Tomb’s door clacking their beads, her sins would remain buried.
This time Harrow went through the motions of removing her garments before sliding under the saltwater pool. She wasn’t as out of it as she’d been the day previous. This wasn’t to be part of a penintence baptism. This time, she seeked absolution.
Her veil came off first, next her cape. Her dress third. Her bone corset she broke apart in sections with a theorem, not unlike dismantling a puzzle one piece at a time. This, Harrow set aside with care, not wanting to go through the trouble of making another intricate piece before meeting Griddle. She ought to be at her best when staring down at her, every jagged edge of advantage she could get in front of Nav proved an extra few moments of precious solace to her mind.
With a grunt, she shook herself free of the ginger’s annoying influence, as a dog would shake itself off when wet.
Harrow set out to unbutton the gray undershirt she had below the service dress she wore to conduct mass. After that came her pants. Her shoes she unceremoniously kicked to a corner and — resisting the bad urge to look over her shoulder, to her mother’s vanity mirror — she slipped her undergarments off.
Glancing down, in the end, proved to be worse than staring at herself directly at the mirror. The undisturbed waters of the pool recreated her likeness glaring back openly, leaving no room for imagination. She’s never hated the sensation of weakness more than she does when she’s fully disrobed.
But for the purposes of this ceremony, she will need full skin contact with the saltwater.
And so as the salt, the cold, the water and the ghosts embraced her (as if she had ever once escaped their reach), Harrowhark meditated on forgiveness. On the uselessness of it all. If she were honest with herself, it was not mercy she sought, but oblivion.
Complete amnesty of her desires — empirically — could never happen. An addict, once felled by the deception of their own self loathing, cannot reclaim the previous knowledge of a life without opiates; the human body — once born — cannot un-know hunger. Cold, as much as darkness, is the limiting factor that precedes the nature of warmth and light. The universe nothing but a soup of life inside a very, very dead bowl of cosmos.
Her parents themselves proved it, a bloom of thalergetic energy takes but a moment to decay but thanergy, the true structure of all necromancy, took years to cede into a fraction of the thalergetic reading of its predecessor. The meat of the body unsustainable without osseous tissue for support. Fat and muscle rot, only bones last generations.
Under water, Harrow snorts, bubbles forming around her mouth and nose, lazily drifting to the surface. Now she’s preaching to the choir.
But her cuts still sting, her bruises still purple, the skin around her neck still taught and stiff from her hands. Her stomach still growls in hunger, her heart still beats, her neurons still transmit the chemicals her horrid flesh needs to sustain itself.
Death is an absolution she will not be easily granted. She cannot flee her duties just the same as the Emperor cannot outsmart the creature inside the Tomb. Dying is for those that have either finished their tasks or fled their charge completely; and she is far too busy to die.
Harrow, try as she might — and oh how she had tried — cannot escape her flesh. Of course, she knows better than to reason against gravity. So she works, instead, on giving in as little as possible, compromising with her integrity as much as she dares. She cannot ask for redemption the same way she cannot ask for her parents to untie the nooses from their necks and beg them back to life. Atonement is a farce outside the reach of all. And in her most heretic of moments, she truly believes it.
Not even God is free of sin.
A̶͕͍̠͆̐̌n̴̦͂̐̚d̵̫̗͎̊͠ ̵͕͆ť̷̬̍͌h̶̛́ͅe̷̱͗͒r̵̳̱̒ȩ̷̳͓̑̕͘f̴͕̩̀͒̿ǫ̵̔r̷̩̈́͋̎e̴̠̝̔̕ ̷͍̂̀̈l̸̢͈͒i̵̢̧͐e̴̗̜͗s̷̙̩̽͠ͅ ̷͉̭̌̿̆t̴͔̏h̶͉͎̀͂e̶͈͐͜ ̵̨͓̿͆r̸͙̼͕̐̇́ę̴̳̈ȃ̵̦̤s̸̤͝ͅọ̷̋n̸̛͍̓͛ ̸̞̅ȍ̵̤f̴͍͔̓ ̴̲͇́̋̉y̷̬͎̻͒̉ò̵͍̺̀u̵̠̪͑͝r̴̪̮̔͝͠ ̸̢̯̘͗͠͝Â̸̫̫ͅḆ̸̖͆͛͝A̷̗̎̅Ṉ̷̩͇̾͂̈D̸͔̞̟̈́̉Ò̵̪̥Ǹ̸̬̯͝M̵̳̠͗͂͑͜Ě̷̮̱͇N̴̙̮̼̽̀T̶͕̒̈͝— the justification your blasphemed heart cries against its kin.
Don’t flinch my little f̵̗̦̘͇̟̩̱̬͊͂̎͗l̸͎̯̪̘̘̪͓͊̀͌͋̊͑͝y̷̰̘̫̱̹̘̱̐̈́͌̉̐̽͘t̶̡̢̬̪̫̲̺͔̽͐̈́̽͗r̵̤̰͇͆͝a̴̫̭͇͛̉́̍̆̑̔͘p̵͙͙̅̑̋̾̒. Your mother and I are here to take stock. You seek our B̷͉̳͚̌Ĺ̷̢͆̏͘E̶̳̅̀͠S̵̳̭͙̭̆͑͝͠S̶̘̟̖̔̅̕͘͜I̵͖̣̰̿̑Ṉ̶̨̹͚̗̏̏̚G̶̨̘̀̈ to chase her again. You know you won’t eve̸̮͓̹̘̐͂͝r̵̺̹̳̯̉͑̀͘ ̶̡͎͚̊͊b̸͎̿͘ȅ̸͚̗̲̚a̵̬͈̩̕r̷̥̥̳̭͂͗͌̚ ̴̡͎̰̘͐̀̀͘ï̸̡̬̘̏͘ṯ̷̩͕̟̍,̵̯͙̈͑̃̕ ̸̲͇̝̘̌̅a̷̜̅ļ̵͉̥̿͌̎̆t̸̛̯͇̘͋̚h̷̨̺̹̳̾o̷̪̱͕̻͆̍͝͝ugh this is not the reason you sit at th̶͈͓͆́̉͒ȩ̸̣̫̫̖̉ ̸̨̖̬̘͆b̴̹͖͖̓͜ơ̸͎̳̏́̐ţ̶̲͇͈̞͐͐̕͠t̶̨̢̜́ȏ̴̙̖̰̆̎m̸͈̹̉̍̃́ ̷̱̮̝̋͊̈́͘͝ǫ̴̢̜̾̆f̵̤̱̞̝̱̃̏̅ ̷͓̰̳̞͌̌̐͑͗ȯ̶̢͉͘ur river impl̷͍̦͖͍̀́̽͐o̷̡͙̮͈̽̊̍͛ř̷͉̳̪͝ḯ̴͖̐̀n̶̫̫͕̄̉͗ġ̴͙͉͝ͅoŭ̴̼ř̶̟ ̸̮̔ć̵̞o̷̘̒u̵͆ͅncil. Yo̸̹̾ǔ̴͈ ̸̻́k̶͉̐ṉ̵̀ơ̸̯w why you are her̶̥͔̎̾é̶͉̽ ̷̺̺̬̌f̸̫̔ơ̸̱̞̚r̵̢̘̠̿̈͌.̵̟͉̓̂͑ ̸̺̉S̷̄ͅṯ̶̻̅a̵̢̪͈̿y̵̜͆̏͝ ̸̮̯̑͒͒a̷̧̹͚̕͠n̴̦͊͗̈d̵̞͑ ̷̺̩͝d̵͂́͜r̶̞̈́o̶̩͑̏̆wn if you must, but rem̶͔̘͂̇ė̷̮̲̚͘m̶̠͇̙̍̆b̶͓̈̐e̵̗̬̲͆̏͌r̸̡͍̝͒͂ ̶̱̰̪̅͗t̷͎͘h̴̘̖̝̀̕͘is: you will neve̴̙͖̞̍r̵̦̣̜̲̀̅ ̵̢͕͉̪̭̃̓́͊b̵̧͍̏͊̔̇è̶͓͖̮̺͗͋͜ ̴̡͉̲̩͙̍́͐̒̒̕f̵̧̟̏r̷̝͊̉̓͆̌͝e̷̜͒̉͘e̴̡̱̳̝̬̤̓̑d̷̛̠͍͖́͒͠ ̵̙̻̱͇͂̆͠o̴̧̗̰̓̂̓͝f̶͓͕̻̩͋̓ ̶̼͍̖̤̪̎͆̂̆̋y̷͖̦̫̟̪͗̂ǫ̷̙̹̲͌u̶̫̎́̔͆̕͜r̶̢̭̰̺̄̌̓͆ ̵̼̈́r̵̮̩̯͕͕̰̒̆a̵͔̾̈́̌͝p̴̤̿t̵̨̔̆̉ṷ̷̻̓͜r̵̬̤̮̓e̴̖̬̥̐́͒̉͜͝͝.̵̩̂̿̏̉̌̌͜ͅ You will yearn as bones the same as yo̴̤̤̽̒ǘ̴͎͑ ̸̲͍̋̿o̴̧̮͊n̵̙̱̅c̷͎̦͐ë̶͓́̇ ̸̜͗ÿ̶̧́͑e̸̱͋̊a̸̗̦͋r̴̻̎̚n̵̼̐̈e̵̎͜d̴̡̳͊ ̸̣͙̽͘a̷̘̦̎͑s̶̡̝̓̕ ̶̱̚w̶͚̣̾̓a̸̠̬̓ḻ̶͓̕͝k̵͖̘̒į̴̘̆̄ñ̵͕̥̏g̴̺̞͘ ̵̜̭̅̓ḟ̴͓̕͜l̴̺̀̅e̷̝͗s̵͕̪̽h̶̳̼͛.̶̝̇͋ Endlessly and without succor.
You ca nǹ̷̜o̷̲̿͂͜t̴̛͇̐ ̸̨̈̒e̴̗̅s̸̝̳͠͝ç̴͙̌ a̷̠͚͌p̵̱̤̄̚ḛ̴̋͐ ̵̰̣̏́h̶͎̉̉e̷̦͍̾͘r̵̨̪͝ ̷̭͓̌̓ẅ̸͙̭́̎r̸͙̻̔̐ä̶̡t̴͇̗͗ḧ̵͈̰,̷͕̖̓͋ nor her co n ẗ̵̝́͋e̵̺͗m̵͕͉̔͛p̸̘͂ţ̶͍͐ ̷̡̫͗̄a̸͖̔̇n̴͙̂͛d̴̲̎̍ ̸̻͝l̴̺̤̊e̸̜̭͌ ast of ä̷͕́l̵̤̒̐͝l̵̡͖̇̉͐ ̵̢̤̻̏̅͐h̶̬̣̭̍̕ḕ̵͙͒r̶̤̫͍̓̕ ̸̗͋ṕ̴̧̣̌̚h̷̳̚͝ẙ̶̯͛͑s̸̮̆́̐i̷̥̘͈̊̕č̶̮͓ả̴̹͠l̴̠̔̚i̵̦͇͐̂ͅt̵͇̼̀y̶͚̺̓̅.̸̼̞͛͗̕ Now begone harlot, a̶̫͇̺̔̉n̷̫͈̻̥̍d̶̯̱͚̂͑̌̂̑ ̵̰̗̩̊̈g̶̥̬̒̐͠ȯ̶̳̠̫͔͎̋̈́͘̚ ̷̛̗̖̔a̵̧̨̙̫̥̓̏̂͠b̵̨͕̣̫̃̈́̑̀͑o̵̲̿̓͗̈́̇ư̷̧̎ṭ̶̱͑̀͋̒ ̵̨̡̨̱͓̕͝ẙ̵̰̌̔ŏ̸̖̲̯͆̕ů̵̡̬̗̱͝r̶͕͋̓͌̿͝ f̴͚̳̙̦̞̠̀̅̈́͘͘͜ǫ̶̡̟̞͓͖̏͂ u l bu sin̷̛̘̺̗͆͐̀̊̑e̷̝͛͛̉̔̾̕̚s̶̼͔̩̬̹͖̙̀͛́͗̃̕͠s̷͈̪͍̻͆̽ ̸̛̮̮̯̎͌́͗̋̀̃̅u̴̠̘͉͚̺͂̎̉̇̾͘͝p̸̥̰̘̯̎o̴̯͈̪̮̩͌̄͂̀̆͂͝n̸̢̠͇̩̒̌͌͑͛ ̶̜̾t̷͍͉̙̭͋ĥ̴̳͕̓̆̎ē̶̯̼͠ ̶̨̃̉̕Ę̶̞͙͕̈́͑m̸̫̼̠̋̃͋̚p̴͍̓̃̎̚͝e̵̦̽̒͒̑͂r̷̰̪̟̙̈͜ǫ̴̡̛͎͔́͑͂͠ͅr̷͎̮͈̅͆̃̿͜’s trodden dirt.
Harrowhark raised herself to the lip of the pool, exiting on shaky legs. Gathering her clothes and bothering only with her smallclothes, undershirt and pants, she left her dress there in haste to exit her parents’ bedchambers.
In her hurry to be rid of her father’s words the Reverend Daughter donned her clothes while wet so that she could pretend the dampness collected between her legs to be saltwater instead of a building, mounting, agonizing anticipation.
Not for the first time, and specifically whenever Gideon Nav was concerned, Harrow dreaded the resolutions her body’s actions would come to.