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Chapter Text

The wing commander had told Gideon that it wasn't necessary for her to be present when the shuttle landed. Its passenger would be arriving alone, unaccompanied, so there was no need for the pomp and circumstance that the Houses might have otherwise demanded. They would carry out the usual procedure that was necessary for any House official; scan the ship, cuff the zombie, and put her in a secure room for briefing.

"I thought that's why you'd want me here," said Gideon, using the sort of tone that her comrades knew preceded an inappropriately timed joke. She proved them right by clarifying, "For the cuffing."

Several of the masked and uniformed people around her visibly reacted, some of them groaning audibly through the crackle of voice changers. Wing commander We Suffer cuffed Gideon on the back of the head, making her grin at their dismayed reactions.

"Hey, mind the hair!" Unlike the others, Gideon wore nothing to conceal her face or bright shock of red hair. "I want to be my most sexiest and alluring self today."

"Gideon, you have my utmost respect, but also my ire," said We Suffer in her best 'tired of your shit' voice. "Please, for the love of the Commander, behave yourself."

Gideon grimaced at the mention of her late mother and fell silent, straightening her spine just in time for the hum of a shuttle engine to reach her ears.

The ship was smaller than the ones the Houses usually sent, and an older model to boot. Gideon was a little surprised that it hadn't just burnt to a crisp in the atmosphere. As the ship slowly touched down on the landing tarmac, the group of Blood of Eden troops all stood around looking like the universe's most boring and heavily armed funeral procession. They waited for confirmation to come over the radio that there were no issues on the scanner, and We Suffer gave the order for the shuttle doors to be opened.

The Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House descended the shuttle ramp with her head held proudly high, despite the circumstances. She was draped from head to toe in heavy black cloth, which seemed overkill even for the chilly weather, and her face was concealed by a veil. She stopped when her feet touched the tarmac, and wordlessly presented her wrists to the agent waiting to handcuff her with anti-necromancy bands. The agent did so, roughly, and Gideon stepped forward, neatly dodging We Suffer's outstretched hand when it tried to grab her.

"Welcome to New Rho," Gideon greeted the necromantic princess. She casually dismissed the other agent with a wave of her hand. "I hope your journey wasn't too tiring. Sorry about all of this, the bracelets will come off after we get you settled. I'm Gideon, by the way, if you hadn't already guessed."

The newcomer in black was silent for a moment, and Gideon felt her critical gaze even through the veil. Eventually, to Gideon's horror, the princess knelt before her and graciously bowed her head, the black robes pooling around her like an ink spill. When she spoke, her voice was calm and cold.

"I thank you for your concern, honored fiance. I, the Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus, am grateful for the opportunity to be here with you, and to serve as a bridge between our people. I pray that our union will be the seed that blossoms into a peace that flourishes for generations to come."

"Please, stand," said Gideon, profoundly embarrassed. And, when curiosity got the better of her, "May I remove your veil? Or is it, like, a religious thing?"

"The veil functions as a sunscreen. If you wish to remove it, I cannot stop you." For all of her flowery words, the reply was surprisingly curt. Still, the Reverend Daughter rose to her feet and did not flinch when Gideon reached for her.

Gideon carefully lifted the veil of her bride to reveal a skull– no, not a skull, but a dour, pointed face that had been painted with excruciating detail to resemble one. Gideon looked with interest at the confident, practiced brush strokes and tried to peer past the paint to the visage beneath. The princess had eyes as black and fathomless as a void, and a mouth that turned down at the corners in a perpetual frown. Her expression was almost stoic, but Gideon could see hints of the rage she restrained in the way she looked at her betrothed, as though she were idly contemplating the most efficient way to bore a hole into Gideon's head.

Gideon nodded in satisfaction and let the veil fall back into place. "I bet you're a riot at funerals."

The princess hesitated, as though unsure how to respond. "Perhaps."

—

Gideon remained by the Reverend Daughter's side during her briefing with the wing commander. We Suffer went through the pleasantries of thanking the necromancer for being a bastion of change, outlined her expected conduct within of Blood of Eden's operations, and finalized the legal document that would make the marriage official. The princess sat silent and immobile, responding only when prompted and usually saying only 'yes' or 'no.' Afterwards, when they had finished searching her luggage and she was officially released into Gideon's custody, the Reverend Daughter finally showed some interest in her surroundings when Gideon dismissed the guards that were meant to escort them.

"What would you like for me to call you?" Gideon easily carried the princess's trunk and led them into an elevator. She selected a floor near the top of the building. "Is 'Harrowhark' alright?"

"I would appreciate being referred to as 'Nonagesimus.'"

"My name is kind of a mouthful, so I'd prefer if you just called me 'Gideon.'" Gideon glanced sideways at Nonagesimus. Her head inclined slightly under the veil and Gideon knew she was looking back at her. "I'm sorry about the collar. I didn't know they were going to do that."

The handcuffs had been removed, but Nonagesimus now wore a thick metal band around her neck; the newest model in BoE's instant decapitation technology. Unlike the previous versions, it did not constantly beep when active and was much less likely to explode on accident.

Nonagesimus's reply was as cold and sharp as a guillotine sliding home. "I will think of it as my wedding band."

There was nothing appropriate to say in response to that, so they suffered through a very long and quiet elevator ride together. When they reached the twenty first floor, Gideon stepped out first and Nonagesimus followed behind her. The hair on the back of Gideon's neck stood up and she fought the urge to turn around.

"It's not much, but it's home." Gideon opened the door to her apartment and gestured for Nonagesimus to enter. She locked it behind them and went around flipping on lights, revealing a decently sized kitchen and sitting room, both kept neat and tidy. The princess waited in the entryway, looking out of place in such a domestic setting, like a cross between a death omen and a very fancy floor lamp. "I don't know what you're used to on the Ninth, but I hope you'll like it well enough. You're not allergic to cats, are you? Sausage is around here somewhere, but she usually just stays in my room. Here, this one is yours."

Nonagesimus followed Gideon down a short hall that led to a bathroom and two bedrooms. The room that was to be hers had its own bed and desk, as well as a functioning lock on the door. She stared for a little too long, watching as Gideon set her trunk down in front of the closet. Slowly, she said, "I did not expect a cage as gilded as this."

"I don't know about 'gilded,' but there is hot water, so I guess that's something. Unfortunately, you are right about it being a cage. We're still working out the details, but you'll be accompanied by a guard whenever you're not here, at least for a little while. Speaking of which, I recommend that you paint those gauges black."

Nonagesimus started and turned towards Gideon, who smiled and tapped a finger to one of her own ears. The other agents who had examined her for contraband were so unnerved by the face paint that they had failed to notice the rings of bone set into her stretched lobes.

"We'll both be in hot shit if you're caught with those, Nonagesimus."

The necromancer removed her veil and glared suspiciously at Gideon. Without it, the unfiltered anger and contempt on her face were intensified by the skull paint. "You are acting as my advocate. Why?"

Gideon shrugged and looked away, speaking instead to her luggage on the floor. "It sucks, right? Being forced away from your home. I can't pretend that I know exactly what you're going through, but I've been relocated to a few different planets, so I'm at least familiar with the concept."

Nonagesimus said nothing, just continued to watch Gideon as though she were a lab rat displaying usual behavior. Gideon started to ease backwards out of the bedroom.

"I'll let you unpack and get settled. Tell me if you want something to eat, or if you need anything at all, really. I'm not on duty today, so I'll be here."

Gideon gently closed the door to give Nonagesimus some privacy, and because her personality was more than a little intense. She wasn't sure what to expect, but Gideon didn't hear a peep out of that room for the rest of the day, not even when she made dinner in the evening. When the sun had set and there had still been no sign of the princess, Gideon went and quietly tapped on her door.

"Sorry to bother you, but I do need to confirm that you're not a suicide risk."

The reply came more quickly and from much closer than Gideon had expected, as though Nonagesimus were pressed right against the other side of the door. Her voice sounded tired now, and less controlled than it had been earlier. "I'm too expensive to die."

Gideon started to say something, but reconsidered. Instead, she said, "I'm leaving some food here for you."

"I don't want it."

"You haven't tried it."

"The smell alone is offensive."

Gideon raised her eyebrows and examined the dish in her hands. She knew she wasn't a bad cook. "Do you not eat meat?"

A pause. "No."

"That's my bad, I should have asked. I'll get you just some noodles and vegetables, then." Gideon switched out the food and left a covered bowl outside of Nonagesimus's room, along with a few bottles of water. "I'll see you in the morning."

There wasn't a response. Gideon touched the doorknob, letting her fingertips rest on the cool metal, but then took her hand away.

"Goodnight, Nonagesimus."

—

The rest of the week passed by more slowly than Gideon would have thought possible. Nonagesimus left her room rarely, usually only to use the bathroom and only during times when Gideon was preoccupied, so that she just caught fleeting glimpses of her back robes. Even when Gideon left the apartment, she would return and find everything just as she'd left it, with no sign of Nonagesimus having ever ventured outside of her room.

It was a struggle to get her to eat anything at all, and Gideon had finally given up on cooking and resorted to leaving handfuls of ration bars outside of her bedroom, which were the only food that Nonagesimus would eat in its entirety.

When Gideon had just about all she could take of this stagnancy, she went and knocked on Nonagesimus's door one afternoon. "Do you want to go out with me?" Gideon quickly backtracked, "Outside, I mean. Out of the apartment. With me." And, "For sightseeing purposes."

Gideon heard the rustle of fabric, and a minute later Nonagesimus's voice came through the door. "What are the conditions of such a venture?"

"You'll be going incognito. I have something for you."

Gideon waited the eternity it took for Nonagesimus to weigh the pros and cons of opening the door. She did, eventually, crack it open just enough for her to examine whatever Gideon wanted to give her. It was dark in her bedroom, her face paint was little more than a smeared gray mess, and she was unexpectedly bundled in a duvet. With her exhausted, bloodshot eyes and hunched posture, Nonagesimus bore almost no resemblance to the imposing figure who had emerged from the House shuttle.

Gideon's heart strings twisted at the sight, but she said nothing as she passed a paper shopping bag to Nonagesimus. It contained civilian clothing in her size; a simple shirt and trousers in black, along with a dark blue jacket. Proving that beggars could indeed be choosers, she scoffed at the selection.

"Absolutely not."

"Everyone knows that a princess from the Houses is here, but no one knows what you look like. Not dressing like a wizard straight out of the comics will help with that."

Nonagesimus considered this. "And the collar?"

"Stays on, but no cuffs," said Gideon. "And you have to remain within a certain radius of me, or the collar explodes."

"That would not be the worst thing to happen to me this year," sighed Nonagesimus. Gideon had the sinking feeling that she was not making a joke. "Why not? Leave me, while I change."

—

Gideon waited patiently while Nonagesimus bathed for the first time since she'd arrived, spending more than an hour in the bathroom. When she finally emerged in a waft of steam and dressed in her new clothes, Gideon was surprised by how small she seemed and stared for a moment too long at her plain, unadorned face. On the elevator ride down to the garage, Nonagesimus kept herself hidden behind a cloth mask that looped around her ears and a large pair of sunglasses.

The garage was cool and dark, but sunlight and sound spilled into it from the wide entrance. Cars honked and sped by on the street outside, and people walked and chatted on the sidewalks. Winter was coming to an end, and the weather was bright and clear. Gideon started moving towards the light, but was arrested by a tug on her jacket. She turned and found Nonagesimus rooted to the spot in the safety of the shadows, staring past her with wide, alarmed eyes.

"Are you alright?"

"I have never been around so many people," Nonagesimus said quietly, "It is… loud."

Gideon glanced down at where Nonagesimus clutched to her jacket, and she instantly released her, balling her delicate hands into fists. "I was going to have us take public transit, but would you want to go on my motorbike instead? It'll be faster, too."

Nonagesimus wavered, but when another car horn made her jump, she said, "Show it to me."

Gideon took them to the back of the garage, where there was a line of caged storage areas. She unlocked her own, which held her motorcycle and associated supplies. "How did you get around on the Ninth?"

"The traditional method. Walking."

Gideon started to laugh, but stopped herself, glancing at Nonagesimus to make sure it had been a joke. Between the face mask and the sunglasses, it was difficult to tell. Gideon smiled anyway and put a helmet in her hands. "This will help with the noise."

Nonagesimus reluctantly pocketed the mask and glasses, and she allowed Gideon to help her put the helmet on. Once it was snugly in place, the sounds around her all became muffled and distant. She watched through the reflective visor as Gideon rolled her vehicle out of the cage and slung one leg over the seat in a practiced motion, straddling it.

Gideon turned the engine on and motioned for Nonagesimus to sit behind her. "Have you ridden a motorcycle before? You need to hold onto me so you don't fall off."

Nonagesimus hesitated for so long that Gideon nearly thought it was a refusal, but then she copied what Gideon did and threw a leg over the seat. She struggled only slightly with her height, and a pair of hesitant hands hovered near Gideon's hips before awkwardly holding onto her belt.

Gideon put her own helmet on and took them slowly out of the garage and onto the street. Nonagesimus seemed to realize immediately that holding onto a belt would likely not be enough to keep her from dying in a traffic accident, and she grabbed more firmly onto Gideon's hips. Encouraged by this, Gideon sped up a little and plotted a route in her head with the streets that were likely to be the least busy. As they were turning off the main road, a car swerved around them, its driver honking incessantly.

"Fucking shit," hissed Nonagesimus, her voice crackling through the helmet's intercom. Gideon laughed, which startled her again.

"Sorry, forgot about the comms. I haven't had anyone ride with me in a while. Let me know if you need a break, but we'll get there pretty quick."

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere quiet."

—

As the sun began to set, Gideon drove them out of the city and into the desert. She continued on past the dilapidated buildings until the road was more sand than concrete, and parked her bike in the middle of the would-be street. After the engine was off and they removed their helmets, the abrupt silence was nearly overwhelming. Nights in the desert were remarkably cold and they were the only two people out on the barren stretch of land.

"If you have plans for homicide, could you hurry it along? I would be loath to discover that you have interrupted my slow decay for nothing," said Nonagesimus morosely. She had put the mask and sunglasses back on even though they were alone.

"You have such a way with words," said Gideon. "Come on, the sacrificial blood altar won't wait all day!"

Gideon climbed the decaying staircase of a building that had partially sunk into the sand and was missing most of its walls. Nonagesimus surprised her by following without further complaint, and even accepted the offer of Gideon's hand to help steady her at certain points. They went up to what might have been the fifth floor, where the staircase capped out. The roof was completely gone and from here they had a view of the desert for miles and miles, all the way to where the sun had begun to sink beyond the horizon.

Gideon sat down at the edge of the crumbling platform, letting her legs dangle in open air, and chivalrously brushed off the concrete next to her before offering the spot to Nonagesimus, who sat primly on her knees with her hands in her lap. They sat in silence except for the occasional sound of the sand shifting in the breeze, and together they watched the sunset. When the sky was stained purple with the memory of the sun and the stars began to shine, Gideon finally spoke.

"You're not like I thought you'd be."

Nonagesimus kept her eyes on the horizon. "Do I disappoint you, honored wife?"

Gideon was starting to think that 'honored wife' was a placeholder for 'fucking asshole' or something similar. "Not at all. I think more girls should aspire to be gremlins when they grow up."

"You also differ from my expectations," admitted Nonagesimus. Gideon waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. "Do you frequent this place often?"

"Not really. Usually just when I'm having a fantastically shitty day, you know? It's nice to be away from everything for a bit."

"What diversions are available in such a place?"

"You're doin' it. Watch the sunset, pick out constellations, scream into the void."

Nonagesimus thought about this. She slowly raised herself onto her feet and stood there, surveying the stars and the sand and the vast emptiness between them. She carefully removed her mask and sunglasses, pocketing them in her jacket, and Gideon was struck all over again by how exhausted she looked. Then, she opened her mouth and screamed.

The cry that emerged from her throat pierced the silence with a long, eerie shriek that sent chills over Gideon's skin and made her stomach twist. It was the desperate, strangled howl of a dying animal. It was the unearthly wail of a banshee that had never known rest. When Nonagesimus finally expended all of the air from her lungs, she staggered and took in a shuddering breath before starting all over again, this time through choking sobs as tears rolled down her cheeks. She clutched at her arms, nails clawing at the fabric of the jacket, struggling to hold herself upright as she trembled under the weight of her own immeasurable grief.

When Nonagesimus stumbled too close to the ledge, Gideon quickly stood and reached out to steady her. As soon as she touched her arm, Nonagesimus rounded on her with eyes like a feral creature and charged at her. She pounded her fists on Gideon's arms and chest with all the violence she could muster, still screaming, still sobbing. Not knowing what else to do, Gideon grabbed onto one of those slender wrists and pulled her close, wrapping her arms around Nonagesimus and squeezing her to her chest. She thrashed and writhed, her arms trapped in Gideon's unyielding embrace, until her knees buckled and her screams dissolved into heaving, shaking sobs. Gideon lowered them both onto the concrete, and she held Nonagesimus until the last of her rage was spent and her body became as limp and quiet as a ragdoll.

Gideon slackened her hold on Nonagesimus but kept her bundled in her arms. She ran a hand absently over her short black hair, seeking to comfort, and was surprised to find that she was trembling as well. Nonagesimus did not reach for her in turn, but she allowed herself to be held as her breathing evened out. The last of the sun's colors faded and the two of them were soon bathed in starlight.

Nonagesimus shifted slightly in Gideon's arms so that she could see the sky. Weakly, and with a very scratchy voice, she asked, "Can you see the Nine Houses from here?"

"Yeah." Gideon ran her hand once more over Nonagesimus's hair before she lifted her arm and pointed at a bright cluster in the sky.

"There, see that cloudy purple mess? That's Dominicus shining in the middle."

Nonagesimus looked at it and made a soft sound. "Thank you. For bringing me here."

There was a lump in Gideon's throat, so she nodded. After a while, she said, "I'll get you a map of the city, and you can pick where we go next time."

"Will I ever be allowed out by myself?"

"Eventually. Everyone is still getting used to you, but the shock and awe will wear off."

"Will it?"

"They got used to me."

"That's different. You were raised among the Blood of Eden. And you're not a necromancer."

"True, but I am still the offspring of the worst necromancer who ever necro'ed. When I was a kid, I survived an astonishing amount of assassination attempts. Also, my mom was really good at killing people." Gideon bit her tongue and steered the conversation away from her mother. "Plus, you know, we've worked with necromancers before, so there's precedent for it. Things will change for the better, Nonagesimus. I promise."

Gideon held her hand in front of Nonagesimus with the last finger extended away from the rest. They both waited in anticipation, but nothing happened.

"What are you doing?" Nonagesimus asked at last.

"A pinky swear. It's an oath of the highest order, even better than a blood pact."

"This is stupid," muttered Nonagesimus. But Gideon's hand continued to hover in front of her, so she timidly raised her own and mirrored her. Gideon's finger curled around hers, linking them together briefly.

"Now I'm oath-bound to cheer you up," said Gideon decidedly.

Nonagesimus's mouth twitched and made what could have been the shadow of a smile, had it not been so sad. "I've never been cheery in my life."

"Really? I couldn't tell."

"Ah, sarcasm. The coward's lie."

"So you do have a sense of humor! I was beginning to doubt."

"The fact that I do not find you very humorous says more about you than it does about me."

"What I'm hearing is, you think I'm kind of funny." Gideon rubbed her hands over Nonagesimus's arms and she shivered. "It's getting cold. We should head back soon."

Nonagesimus took a deep breath and Gideon felt the movement of her ribs against her own. "Could we stay for just a little longer?"

"...Yeah. As long as you want."

Chapter Text

Gideon had only seen We Suffer's actual face a handful of times over the years that they'd known each other, but it was easy for her to imagine the wing commander's eyebrows shooting up into her hairline when Gideon started making regular appearances at Blood of Eden's weekly organizational meetings. After leaving the front lines, Gideon discovered that she much preferred her new career as a construction project manager. She found joy in helping the communities of New Rho to rebuild; to use her hands to make things instead of destroying them.

That being said, Gideon usually only showed up for budgeting meetings. So, everyone took notice of not only her sudden presence, but her active interest and participation. However, only Pash was brazen enough to call her out on it. After one such meeting, she waited outside the conference room for Gideon and gave her a solid tap on the ass with her boot.

"What's up with the newfound dedication to our infrastructure?" Pash demanded. She grinned and deflected Gideon's much more forceful return kick.

Gideon was carrying a stack of papers and a clipboard, so she didn't try to kick Pash again. "You know how it is. Knowledge is power, etcetera, etcetera."

"I've seen you walking your pet zombie around," said Pash, switching tactics. She followed Gideon down the hall, towards the elevators.

"I need to take her out for exercise a few times a day, or she gets cranky," said Gideon, rolling her shoulders in a lazy shrug.

"Don't make the mistake of getting attached to that thing."

They had arrived at the elevators, but Gideon didn't want Pash to follow her upstairs so she meandered over to the nearest window. It looked out onto a modest courtyard, lined with benches, where a small collection of green things was starting to push up through the dirt in preparation for spring. "Regardless of how you or anyone else feels about Nonagesimus, she is, for better or worse, my wife. And I'm not going to be the kind of person who mistreats their spouse."

Pash sighed and rolled her heavily shadowed eyes dramatically. She leaned on the window frame, looking extremely put upon. "Gideon, I love you like a cousin."

"We are cousins."

"Exactly. I would kill or be killed for you, but sometimes the shit that comes out of your mouth is hot fucking garbage."

"I thought you liked garbage," Gideon said thoughtfully. She smirked at Pash's unamused expression. "Don't worry so much. Being a necromancer isn't contagious."

"'Necromancer,'" Pash echoed with a sneer. "She's even got you talking like them. That little bitch is a zombie. Don't forget that."

"What can I say? I've always had a weakness for dangerous women. Don't be jealous of Harrowhark just because I kicked you out of my apartment for her."

"I don't miss having to put up with your neat-freak ass. Just make sure you don't go sticking your dick somewhere it could get bitten off."

"What if I'm into that? Kidding– I'm kidding, Pash!" Gideon laughed and held up the clipboard to protect her from Pash's hand when it tried to box her ears. "If you just talk to her, I bet you and she would get along. You're both always telling me to be more serious."

"That makes your zombie bride smarter than you."

Gideon, very wisely, did not openly express her agreement with that statement. We Suffer sometimes liked to remind her that it was better to remain silent and let someone assume that she was an idiot, than to open her mouth and remove all doubt. Gideon sighed through her nose. "I'm responsible for her, Pash. And I don't want to be married to someone who will hate me for the rest of my life."

"That kindness will get you killed one of these days, Gid."

"Someday, but not today. Maybe I'll die in one of those horrible dick biting incidents you mentioned." Gideon grinned, and this time when Pash kicked at her, Gideon sidestepped and kicked her other knee, unbalancing her long enough for Gideon to slip into the elevator alone.

—

Out of all the life changes that Gideon had recently gone through, the most jarring one was the loss of her weekends. Winter was a slow season for work and, prior to Nonagesimus's arrival, Gideon would spend her down time almost exclusively tucked away in her apartment. She hadn't lied to her new bride when she said that Blood of Eden had gotten used to having the child of God hanging around, but the effects of growing up as a pariah never really left her. Gideon often secluded herself out of habit, choosing to let others take the initiative to seek her out so that she didn't feel as though she were inflicting herself upon them.

As spring began to blossom and the days became warmer, construction started to pick up. Gideon was often preoccupied with the plans for a new youth center and, whenever she wasn't working or in meetings, there was Nonagesimus. The days of Gideon sleeping through her weekends were officially gone, as Nonagesimus proved herself to actually be an obscenely early riser when she wasn't crippled by depression.

When the sun began to peek through the mini blinds in her room, Gideon would wake to the sounds of her wife knocking on her bedroom door, or making noise out in the kitchen. This was, presumably, just to annoy her into getting out of bed more quickly since Nonagesimus didn't know how to cook. Sausage, the neurotic brown tabby who lived almost exclusively under Gideon's bed, would sometimes sleep on the very edge of the mattress, but Nonagesimus's disturbances made her retreat immediately to her safety zone.

Gideon emerged from her bedroom one such morning and headed straight into the bathroom for a shower. She was accosted by Nonagesimus on the way there and she nodded along to whatever was being said, retaining nothing. When she exited the bathroom twenty minutes later, feeling refreshed and slightly more alert, she was surprised to find that the princess had invited herself inside Gideon's bedroom.

Nonagesimus was dressed in plain civilian clothes instead of her robes and there was no paint in sight, which meant that Gideon had probably agreed to take her out somewhere. She was lying on her stomach and peering under the bed at Sausage, so Gideon stepped over her and opened the closet.

"As much as I enjoy watching you squander the better part of a morning," said Nonagesimus, continuing their one-sided conversation without looking up, "I will be much relieved when I am able to make these excursions without a chaperone."

This, Gideon thought, was blatant hypocrisy from someone she'd seen spend an entire week in bed. She paused in rifling through her collection of t-shirts to rub a hand over her face. "Aren't you used to this sort of thing? I thought all zombie princesses came with fancy bodyguards."

"Cavaliers are persons of prestigious lineages, who have been trained in preparation for service to a necromancer since birth. They are more than mere bodyguards."

"It's not that complicated if all they have to do is swing a sword and die for you."

"You lack context for the social intricacies of such a relationship."

"Do you miss your cavalier?"

This gave Nonagesimus pause, but she answered very decidedly, "No."

"Then, I don't think I need the context." As much as Gideon adored her collection of graphic tees with rude things printed on them, she opted for a plain, fitted black shirt and jeans. It was sort of a default sexy-lazy outfit. "I could learn the sword, if I wanted to."

Nonagesimus made a sound that might have been a laugh. "And you'd die for me, Griddle?"

"If you asked me very nicely. But you'd have to say 'please,' so I don't think it's likely to happen. Also, if you're going to give me a dumb nickname, then I get to give you one."

"No."

"Fine. What about just 'Harrow?'"

"That is… acceptable."

"Great. Now, get out so I can get dressed."

Nonagesimus– Harrow raised her head for the first time since Gideon had entered the room and received an eyeful of her wife wearing nothing but a towel. She sprang up from the floor, slapped her hands over her eyes, and stumbled backwards out of the room, smacking into the doorframe as she went. Her entire face was red, from her scalp to her ears and all the way to the collar. "I thought you already were!"

"I like to air dry!"

"You hog!"

"You're in my room!"

—

The good days were really good.

After Gideon dressed and Harrow shoved her conflicted feelings down into the pit of her soul to marinate with the rest, they went across town to the construction warehouse that Gideon operated out of. Harrow still wasn't comfortable enough with crowds to take the city bus, but she was becoming acclimated to traveling by motorcycle and was less anxious about holding onto Gideon while they rode.

With a lack of any real responsibilities to tend to aside from We Suffer's order to 'stay out of trouble,' Harrow began inventing tasks for herself. Today, she was taking inventory of the warehouse and went around in a face mask, safety goggles, and a hard hat looking very stern and very official as she frowned at things and took notes on a yellow notepad.

Despite all of the things that Harrow seemed to intensely dislike, Gideon had noticed that she was quite fond of writing. She wasn't sure what their rules were regarding gift giving– and it seemed a little one sided since Harrow didn't have any way of reciprocating– but if Gideon happened to purchase nicer pens and notebooks that somehow made their way into Harrow's grabby little hands, it didn't have to mean anything.

Coming on the weekend meant that they had the warehouse entirely to themselves, which was nice. Harrow's high collared shirts concealed the metal band locked around her throat, but her intimidating black-eyed stare had a way of unsettling people even when they didn't know who she was. Gideon, who was wearing absolutely none of the safety equipment that Harrow had opted for, trailed obediently after her while sipping on a coffee that contained more chocolate than bean juice.

They didn't speak much at first, but Gideon would automatically take things that Harrow handed to her, or would hold a ladder while she climbed it. And if Harrow pointed at a disorderly collection of pipe attachments, Gideon separated them so that they could be properly counted and tallied on her notepad.

"Despite some of the less desirable aspects of your personality, you've maintained a very pragmatic approach to our arrangement," said Harrow as they started on a section of roofing supplies.

Gideon's brain was now fully operational, thanks to the combined efforts of sugar and caffeine, and she frowned at this. "First off, you've no right to complain about anyone else's personality. Second, by arrangement do you mean marriage? Just say that we're married! By not saying it, you make it sound dirty. And third," Gideon leaned on the shelf that Harrow was trying to inspect and waggled her eyebrows lecherously, "What other aspects of my personality do you find desirable?"

"Absolutely none of the ones that you are displaying right now." Harrow tapped her pen impatiently on Gideon's bicep to get her to move, and she gestured to the ladder. Gideon brought it over and held it steady as Harrow carefully ascended, staring up after her to admire her figure for a moment before looking away guiltily.

"To be honest, that's something new. Being okay with everything, I mean," confessed Gideon. "I really hated the idea when all this first started. But, I also thought it was lucky that I wasn't getting shipped off to the Ninth House. Um– sorry."

"Don't be," said Harrow unexpectedly. She was marking something down and not looking at Gideon. "I guarantee you would have hated it there."

Gideon chewed on the inside of her cheek before asking, "Do you hate it here?"

Harrow scratched her pen over the yellow flimsy without pause. "I'm still making up my mind."

Gideon breathed a small sigh of relief and she smiled. "Anyway, you're lucky to be getting the best version of me, because I seriously acted out for a while. I even had this bachelorette party that lasted for three whole days with–" Gideon realized too late that she should absolutely not recount this story to her wife and stammered– "with– um, so much cake!"

"I'll not cast judgment on your plethora of sexual partners," said Harrow, but her tone was a touch too chilly.

"It wasn't a plethora. Probably." Gideon wavered, but decided to go for broke. "So, are you, y'know, celibate? Since you hail from Planet Nun, and all."

"Among the congregation of the Locked Tomb, vows of celibacy are a personal decision, not a requirement."

That wasn't an answer, but Gideon left it alone. Even if Harrow did indulge in some kind of bizarre, necromantic sexual deviance, Gideon highly doubted that she would ever be the target of such illicit desires. She probably had too much living blood and bodily autonomy to catch her attention.

"Stop that," chided Harrow as she descended the ladder, "I can tell you're thinking something unseemly."

"A wife knows," agreed Gideon, nodding her head sagely. She grinned when Harrow swatted her shoulder with the notepad.

—

The bad days were more numerous than Gideon liked, but, in the end, she supposed that they were closer to matching what she had expected out of an arranged marriage.

With some encouragement from Gideon, Harrow had taken up painting as a hobby. It was difficult to find real acrylic paints, but Harrow mostly used black and Gideon was able to make an adequate substitute by diluting glue with water and adding a bit of ink. She also built a few canvases out of supplies from the warehouse, but finding the right textiles was an issue, so Harrow progressed to painting directly onto the walls of her bedroom. She created images of dimly lit caverns and decrepit hallways, with passages that twisted away from the viewer's eye. If she included people, they were shadowy and indistinct, often bearing faces similar to the skulls that Harrow decorated herself with. It was all a bit spooky to Gideon, but she would sometimes catch Harrow staring at her work with a strange sort of longing that could only be homesickness.

There was one canvas that Harrow kept returning to; a cavern with a pool of water and a stone altar, lit only by what Gideon assumed were glowing insects on the rocky ceiling. Harrow often became so frustrated with it that she had painted the entire canvas black and started over several times. It was after one of these fits, while the canvas was still wet and Harrow scratched at the drying paint on her fingers, that she emerged from her room and decided to pick a fight with Gideon.

"Perhaps, if you were to take a more active role in the organization that will determine the future of all peoples within and without the Nine Houses, you would have access to better resources for your projects."

Gideon frowned and began to clean up the blueprints that she had spread over the coffee table in the living room, as though to hide them from Harrow's critical eye. The princess was dressed imposingly in her Ninth robes and skull paint, which Gideon thought made her nine times more insufferable than usual. "I told you, I'd rather do construction than be a figurehead. I've seen the mysterious inner workings of the Blood of Eden, and I'm not interested in all the politics."

"You're complacent," scoffed Harrow. "If you were truly committed to bettering my life here, as you so claim to be, then you would make more of an effort."

"I am making an effort. And you could do your part, too. It might help your image if you didn't dress like the poster child for necromancy," Gideon said peevishly.

"How foolish of me! I did not realize that I would suddenly be treated more humanely if I discarded my heritage." Harrow scratched at her neck. The skin around the collar was red and irritated. "You are saying that, should I abandon the sacramental skull, I will be allowed to step outside of these rooms unaccompanied by a guard?"

Gideon faltered. "No."

"Oh! Then, you must mean that I will be allowed to remove this dog collar?"

"...No."

"Well, you will have to forgive my ignorance, Griddle–" (Gideon was nostalgic for the days when the worst thing Harrow called her was 'honored wife')– "I do not see your point, if you are indeed making one at all."

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. They just glared stubbornly at each other from across the room. Eventually, Gideon broke their staring contest. She got up from the couch, her brow still furrowed and shoulders stiff, and she set the blueprints on the kitchen counter. Then, Gideon went over to the front door, put on her shoes and jacket, and was gone. She locked the door behind her with a strange kind of finality.

Rage surged through Harrow and she bit back a scream, but a growl forced its way up her throat. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she seized the nearest thing– a chunky roll of packing tape– and hurled it at the front door. The impact made a satisfying sound and the tape ricocheted onto the kitchen counter, scattering the stack of blueprints as it continued its journey onto the floor, rolling out of sight.

It made Harrow feel a little better but not enough, so she stormed into Gideon's bedroom. She threw open the closet door and began to randomly pull things off hangers and dumped them onto the floor, fully intending to cut or tear or burn something, but a small scurrying sound caught her attention. Harrow whipped her head around and saw nothing, but her eyes fell on the covered litterbox in the corner of the room and she remembered. Her attention diverted, Harrow got down on her hands and knees, and she peered under the bed. Her anger ebbed as she looked at the small, frightened Sausage pressed up against the far wall, her huge eyes shining in the dark.

Harrow unclasped her outermost robe, got down on her stomach, and shuffled her entire twiggy self under the bed. Once she was settled, resting her head on her folded arms, she looked at Sausage and Sausage looked at her. Harrow sighed and gingerly extended a hand for the little tabby to sniff at.

"You like being stuck in here, don't you?" Harrow watched as Sausage carefully examined her hand, nose twitching. She sneezed at the paint. "Griddle told me that you are a stray she took in. That she found you trapped in a drain pipe."

Sausage had apparently decided that Harrow's hand was nothing to write home about, and she lost interest. Some of the tension left her tiny frame and she tucked her legs underneath herself as she sat, so that they were hidden. As Harrow watched, she could see the cat's ribs expand and contract with each breath. There weren't any animals on the Ninth and Harrow found the skeletal structure interesting, but she resisted the urge to reach out and feel it necromantically. To purposely not use that part of her– the necromantic ability that had been painstakingly distilled by her bloodline over the course of centuries, that her parents had sinned for in order to ensure that their offspring would receive that gift– made her feel useless and impotent. There wasn't any way that Gideon, who had hinted at her time spent on the front lines of the war but refused to provide details, could understand how she felt.

"Is this what she would like for me to become? A creature who is content with her confinement?" Harrow hesitated, but she reached towards Sausage again. Mimicking what she'd seen Gideon do, she touched her fingertips to the soft fur between the triangle ears and rubbed. Sausage closed her eyes contentedly. Quietly, Harrow whispered, "I suppose, in a way, I have always been trapped."

Gideon returned more quickly than expected. Harrow, with one ear pressed to the floor, recognized the familiar sound of her footsteps out in the hallway before she entered the apartment. She listened to Gideon pause in the open doorway, taking in the mess Harrow had made, before closing the door. There was the sound of the shoes and jacket being taken back off, and the crinkle of flimsy as Gideon tidied the blueprints. The footsteps went over to Harrow's room first, but the door had been left open so it was obviously unoccupied, and then Harrow watched Gideon's obnoxious green socks come into view.

"Harrow?" said Gideon, uncertainly.

"Yes, honored wife?" replied Harrow, cattily.

Gideon got down and looked under the bed. Two pairs of eyes glinted at her in the darkness. "Could you come out here? Please?"

Harrow considered saying 'no' just to be difficult, but, unlike Sausage, she did not think that remaining under Gideon's bed was a sustainable long-term solution. She shimmied back out as gracefully as possible and presented herself to Gideon with her lips pressed together in a displeased slant and her arms crossed over her chest. Her discarded cloak was still on the floor, along with a pile of Gideon's clothes.

"Turn around." Gideon hadn't spoken with any particular inflection, but her expression was unusually set.

At first, Harrow's only reaction was to stare inscrutably at Gideon. When she finally did turn her back towards her, it was with a sort of arrogant disregard, as though Harrow thought that Gideon's face was displeasing and she had simply grown weary of looking at it.

Annoyed but undeterred, Gideon gently touched her fingertips to Harrow's back in warning, and slid her hands up to her slender shoulders. She couldn't ignore the way Harrow shuddered from the contact, but didn't comment on it. Gideon carefully cradled the collar with one hand, trying not to put too much pressure on Harrow's throat, and with the other she inserted a small silver key into a slot on the back. She turned it clockwise and the collar deactivated, releasing with a soft click. Harrow flinched as Gideon opened the collar and took it away from her neck.

"Don't go outside without it," warned Gideon, "You're annoying as hell, but I don't want you shot."

Harrow remained where she was, facing away from Gideon. She said, as casually as commenting on the weather, "Do you not fear that I will use my necromancy to kill you?"

"I'm asking you, very politely, not to." Gideon put the collar in the drawer of her nightstand and left the bedroom. She called back in a surprisingly cheery tone, "I'm making your most tolerated food for dinner! Let me know when you're ready to eat."

Harrow unwillingly perked up a bit at that. "Buttered noodles?"

"Buttered noodles!"

Once Gideon was out of sight, Harrow raised her trembling hands and rubbed them over her neck. She touched the bone gauges in her ears, necromancy sparking to life in her fingers as she felt their familiar composition. Her heartbeat quickened with excitement and Harrow nearly threw herself on the floor in her haste to wriggle back under Gideon's bed and find out what a cat's skeleton was like.

Sausage, who had no context for human dramatics, was simply pleased to receive a very thorough petting.

Chapter Text

On a very special morning, about six months after Harrow had taken up residence on New Rho (per the House calendar, as she had yet to convert to using the Edenites' system of timekeeping), Gideon awoke to the eerie sound of scratching. After she recognized the noise as being separate from the last of her fading dreams, she realized that Harrow was slowly dragging her blunt nails up and down the other side of the closed bedroom door.

"Why are you like this!" Gideon groaned and lobbed one of her pillows at the door.

This made Harrow pause, but she resumed scratching when it was obvious that Gideon wasn't out of bed yet. To make matters worse, Sausage decided to join in on the fun. The little tabby came out from under the bed and began to paw at the inside of the door, unintentionally dragging her own claws over it. Now sufficiently roused, Gideon rolled out of bed, scooped up Sausage and threw open the door to greet Harrow with a scowl and bed head.

"You're a bad influence." Gideon cradled Sausage to her chest as though to shield her from Harrow's evil aura. "What else have you been teaching my precious daughter, hmm?"

"Why are you so insistent on exposing yourself to me!" Harrow held a hand partially over her eyes so that she could only see Gideon from the shoulders up.

"Why do you keep waking me up in the most annoying way possible!" Since the nights were getting warmer, Gideon had slept in just a shirt and underwear, which she thought was perfectly normal compared to the ankle-length nightdress that Harrow apparently slept in year round. Gideon thought it made her look like she was one candelabra short of wandering around a haunted mansion in a horror story.

This morning, Harrow was already dressed for the day in her black civilian clothes, complete with a cloth face mask and a headscarf. Harrow took a breath, probably in preparation for a lecture, but Gideon handed Sausage to her and pushed past to get to the bathroom. Harrow made a 'hmph!' sound, but was placated when Sausage butted her head into her chin. Rather than continuing to hound Gideon, she sat on the couch and was content to stroke Sausage's soft fur while she waited. Harrow liked running her fingers along the cat's spine, feeling the bumps of the vertebra. And, surprisingly, she was also very pleased with herself whenever she was able to make her purr.

—

"Will she be alright on her own?" Harrow's voice crackled through the helmet's intercom. She leaned to the side, along with Gideon, when the motorcycle took a right turn.

"You mean Sausage? Of course! Before you moved in, she was always alone while I went to work." Gideon smiled and couldn't resist teasing her a bit. "Are you worried?"

"Yes, that is why I asked," said Harrow. She had her arms around Gideon and felt, rather than heard, her laugh. "What?"

"I'm glad you like her. Back when you two met, you acted like it was your first time seeing a cat."

"That is because it was my first time seeing a cat."

"Oh! What do you think of her?"

"Her enhanced spinal mobility is very interesting."

"Not exactly what I was asking, but okay."

They both fell silent for an extended moment, listening instead to the rumble of the motorcycle and the weekday morning traffic around them. Comfortable silences weren't unusual between them, but there was a tension in Gideon's shoulders and a stiffness to the way she held herself. Harrow was tempted to pinch her, but Gideon spoke before she could make up her mind about it.

"Listen, Harrow. About today…" Gideon trailed off, then tried again. "I'm happy that you'll be working with me, but, um, about the office staff…"

Harrow lost her patience, not that she had much to begin with. "Why are you being weirder than usual?"

It became apparent that something really was bothering Gideon when she didn't immediately sass Harrow for calling someone else weird. "Harrow, you– You'll probably hear some things about me. Things I haven't told you."

"I am already aware of your promiscuous nature."

"You're such a nun!" Gideon laughed a little, but quickly sobered. "I'm talking about the war. And me."

"About you being a war hero among the Edenites, or about you being raised as a living weapon?" Harrow felt Gideon, if possible, become even more tense. "So, both?"

It took Gideon a minute to reply. When she did, her voice was very small. "You knew?"

"You assumed that I lacked the foresight to conduct research on my future spouse?" This time, Harrow did pinch her. Gideon let out a yelp of surprise when she felt those bony fingers on her stomach, but she kept the motorbike steady. "Why did you think that I didn't know about you?"

"I don't know! You don't act like most people do around me."

"Because I don't worship the ground you walk on?"

"It's the opposite, actually. Most people were afraid of me." A pause, then quietly, "A lot still are."

"Most people are idiots," scoffed Harrow. But she added in a more considerate tone, "I suppose, not only am I not in a position to judge the circumstances of someone else's birth, but I have also been responsible for a not insignificant amount of death."

The gravity of Harrow's words was undercut by a nearby traffic incident. The drivers of two cars were leaning out their windows, honking and yelling colorful obscenities at each other.

Gideon tried to recapture her attention. "Harrow, what–"

"Regardless," Harrow continued breezily, "The fact remains that, despite your illusion of complexity, you are simply a horny musclehead who doesn't know when to talk and when to shut up. No one should be afraid of someone as embarrassing as you."

Gideon took a moment to process Harrow's words. She sighed either in relief or consternation, sending a burst of static over the intercom, but she seemed overall more at ease. "Don't be mean to me, or I'll get turned on."

"Reprobate," said Harrow. "Was that all?"

"Uh, yeah! I guess so." Gideon signaled with her arm as they turned off the main road and through the open gate of an unpaved dirt lot. She parked next to the two other cars in front of the warehouse and took off her helmet. "I still can't believe you never said anything."

Harrow hopped off the bike and removed her own helmet. There was barely any difference between her helmet-hair and her regular unruly birds nest. She scratched absently at her neck, which was free of the collar since it had been agreed upon that she didn't need to wear it as long as she was with Gideon. "You did not wish to speak of it, and I had no desire to drag it out of you."

Gideon scrubbed a hand through her red hair to return it to maximum fluffiness, and tried not to be obvious about staring at Harrow. She so rarely got to see her face unconcealed by paint or cloth, and looking at her now made Gideon feel strange; as though she'd been diving deep in the ocean and had only just remembered to come up for air.

Harrow was already pulling her scarf out from where she had jammed it down the front of her shirt during their commute. "You would benefit from not waiting until the very last minute to resolve this kind of thing, Griddle."

The corner of Gideon's mouth quirked with amusement. "I'm not taking advice on interpersonal communication from you."

"What?" Harrow paused in shaking out her scarf to raise a condescending eyebrow at Gideon. "I am saying that it would be better for you to not waste my time."

"There it is." Gideon gave her a lopsided smile, and Harrow gave her a weird look in return.

A curl of dark hair was stuck to Harrow's cheek, and Gideon reached out and tucked it behind her ear. She indulgently allowed her fingers to continue trailing around the delicate shell and along her jaw. Harrow had such a peculiar, pointed face. Gideon wondered if her irises truly were as black as they seemed, and she leaned closer without meaning to.

"Griddle?" Harrow's dark eyes were wide, and wary.

Before Gideon's brain could catch up with the rest of her, she wrapped her arms around Harrow and lifted her clean off her feet, hugging her tightly. Harrow made a half-strangled, indistinct sound in her throat and went strangely limp. When Gideon set her back down, it took her a moment to find her footing. Harrow's face had gone bright red and she turned away as she hurriedly arranged her scarf, fingers trembling. Gideon's heart hammered in her chest, feeling as though she'd somehow gotten away with something; like she'd managed to snatch the last slice of cake, or finished a fight without anyone landing a hit on her. Gideon resisted the urge to reach for Harrow again, shoving her hands into her pockets.

"Good luck today. I know you'll do great."

"My greatness was never in doubt!" announced Harrow, at too loud of a volume.

—

Despite Gideon's apprehension, the office staff were largely indifferent to Harrow's presence. It was unclear whether this was because they found Gideon more intimidating, or because they were unaware of Harrow's true identity. (Harrow was, begrudgingly, beginning to find merit in Gideon's suggestion that people would only recognize her as a necromancer if she looked like they expected one to.) The job hadn't even been their idea to begin with, and Harrow had instead been recruited by the accountant who received her very precise inventory count from Gideon with the explanation that her wife had done it 'for funsies.'

Inside the warehouse, there was a metal staircase along the back wall that lead up to a line of small rooms that functioned as offices. It wasn't as noisy as Harrow had worried it might be, since the building was mostly for storage purposes instead of active construction. Gideon was also there more often than she'd expected, since project managers apparently did more paperwork than manual labor. But Gideon had an office that she shared with another manager, and Harrow had a little desk in the accounting office that she shared with Everything You Say Is A Sweet Revelation.

Issa was quiet and mostly kept to herself, but she seemed to be consistently impressed with Harrow's work. In any case, she didn't make her talk to anyone that stopped by to pick up payment and ate her lunch outside, so she was fairly acceptable as far as office mates went. On her first day, Harrow had asked Issa outright if she minded working with a necromancer. To which, she had responded, "You seem just as likely to kill me as anyone else in this hell hole, so what do I care as long as you can manage a depreciation schedule?" and that was that.

—

The simple change of having a routine and new challenges to work through improved Harrow's mood greatly. She was even starting to enjoy when Gideon would take her around the city after work, and together they frequented abandoned buildings, the city library, and the desert. Even though their apartment was in a tall building, their view was mostly just the other tall buildings around it. There was no better location for sightseeing than that first place Gideon had shown her in the desert, especially to watch the sunset.

However, old habits were hard to let go of, and Harrow's paranoia never left her. So even after weeks of routine and exploring the city and soft glances from Gideon, Harrow instantly recognized when something was amiss in the warehouse. On one of the days when Gideon was out visiting a project site, a Blood of Eden courier arrived to deliver a package. It ended up being little more than what appeared to be a random assortment of office supplies stuffed into a padded envelope, but Issa signed off on it. And when the courier left, Harrow followed her downstairs. Because, even though she adorned the typical hood, mask, and voice changer combo of an Edenite, she moved like a cavalier.

The courier did not go directly to the exit. She instead meandered through the aisles of the warehouse, stopping in the middle of a section of doors and door attachments. The courier turned to face Harrow, and she removed her mask. Dark, blunt cut hair framed her scissor slash face. Harrow stopped a few paces away– close enough to speak in hushed tones but not so close that they would seem friendly– and scowled.

"What do you want, Sixth?"

"Reverend Daughter." Camilla the Sixth bowed lightly. "I'm pleased that you remember me."

"You were there when the Houses unanimously decided that I was the most expendable of us. I often fantasized about the violence I would have liked to have indulged in on that particular day."

Camilla tilted her head slightly to the side and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Fantasized, past tense. So, not anymore?"

Harrow's expression made it clear that she was actively fantasizing about violence at that very moment. She repeated her initial question, drawing out every word, "What do you want?"

"To check in."

"Unnecessary and unwanted. You may check out."

Camilla was unmoved by her hostility. "I came to warn you."

"About what?" snapped Harrow, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "I have already been robbed of my station, my home, my future–  What else could possibly be taken from me?"

"There is a faction of deserters from the Cohort. We believe that they are already on New Rho, and that they mean to break the tenuous peace we have gained by taking your life."

"Do not pretend to me that the Houses care for either my life or my death."

"Some of the Houses may not, but the Sixth does." Camilla came a half step closer and lowered her voice further. "The Master Warden believes that you are a talented necromancer and a capable strategist. He believes that you can use your position here to your advantage."

Harrow smiled coldly at her. "My position as a prisoner of war?"

"Perhaps he means your position as an accountant," said Camilla wryly. She huffed a sigh. "Reverend Daughter, the war was ending before our generation even had a chance to enter the arena. I know that having you pay the price for the sins of our ancestors is not justice, but, if you're as good as the Warden thinks you are, then I'm hoping that you will use yesterday's shit to grow tomorrow's flowers. Also, I have a letter for you."

Camilla held out a black envelope, and Harrow instantly recognized the wax seal of her own Ninth House. Although her heart had leapt into her throat at the sight and her fingers twitched with anticipation, she made herself calm and received it from Camilla as though it were being forced upon her. She did not linger on it, and tucked it down the front of her shirt without a second glance.

"You may inform the Master Warden that I have received his message, and I will give it the consideration it is due." Harrow's tone implied that it was due jack shit. She continued, cold and proud, "You may also tell him that I am not merely talented, I am the greatest necromancer of my generation."

The corner of Camilla's mouth twitched, and she nearly smiled. "He thought you might say as much. To which, he has prepared this reply: 'Prove it.'"

Harrow locked herself in a restroom stall to read the letter, tearing the envelope open hungrily. The message was brief, and written in Aiglamene's precise hand. It informed her that ships from the Fifth House had arrived, and agriculturalists were helping to revitalize the planter fields so that a variety of crops could be cultivated. Crux had died recently, from cardiac arrest. The Tomb was still secure, for now. The newly promoted seneschal expressed her hope that the Reverend Daughter was in good health and thanked her for her ongoing duty to the Ninth and the Locked Tomb.

Harrow read it three times. There was no secret message, no hidden code, no invisible ink. It was exactly as it appeared to be: a memorandum from a home that she could never return to.

Harrow clutched the letter to her chest and curled in on herself, touching her knees to her forehead, her entire body trembling. She felt as though she were a neutron star, collapsing inwards and burning out into nothing.

When Gideon returned to the warehouse towards the end of the workday, Harrow was already waiting for her outside. She sat in the shade of one of the parked cars, sunglasses on so that nearly her entire face was hidden. She was staring into the middle distance, so lost in thought that she didn't even notice the familiar rumble of the motorbike. They returned home straight away, and Harrow went into her bedroom and closed the door.

Gideon wasn't sure what was going on with her, but she knew that if she didn't do something about it now then Harrow was likely to shut herself away and stay in bed for a week. She wished that she were the sort of person who always knew the right thing to say, who always knew what to do in order to ease someone else's pain. But that wasn't the kind of person her mother had raised her to be, so Gideon made due. 

After dinner time came and went, Gideon knocked lightly on Harrow's door. There wasn't a response, but Gideon knew she was listening.

"I left some food on the table for you."

Silence.

"Did something happen at work?"

A pause, then, "No."

"Liar," said Gideon. "Did someone harass you?"

Silence.

Gideon exhaled and tipped forward until her forehead came to rest on the door. Whenever Harrow got like this, Gideon couldn't help but feel an urge to hold her. She often caught herself lingering on the memories of the few times that she'd been allowed to embrace Harrow. She was so warm, and she smelled like ink and salt and bone dust– which was a weird combination, but Gideon liked it.

"Harrow, I know I don't always understand what you're going through–"

The door whipped open and there was Harrow, looking much the same as Gideon had last seen her, but more disheveled. The sunglasses and face mask were off, but the black scarf still draped loosely over her neck and shoulders. She braced her hands on the doorframe and glared at Gideon, but she seemed more tired than anything else.

"Then stop pretending that you do! You have no idea what I've lost! You cannot possibly conceive of everything that was sacrificed in order to–" Harrow abruptly cut herself off with a sigh of resignation. This was the most troubling of her behavior yet, since Gideon knew that she deeply enjoyed lecturing her wife. "Leave me be, Griddle. I cannot explain it to you. I cannot make you understand."

"You could at least try." Gideon put her hand on the doorframe next to one of Harrow's, letting their fingers overlap. "I want to be someone who can support you, Harrow."

Somehow, this was the wrong thing to say. Harrow's mouth turned down at the corners and her hands dropped away from the door. She brushed past Gideon, heading for the kitchen. "How rarely we get what we want."

Gideon was willing to tally that one as a win– even though she felt sort of like a hole had been punched through her chest– since she did achieve her goal of getting Harrow to come out of her room. She watched as Harrow picked up the plate that Gideon had left for her on their tiny kitchen table, transferred the food to a plastic container, and put it in the refrigerator. With that distant look still on her face, she began to methodically clean the kitchen.

Gideon followed her and leaned on the counter. "You're quiet and cleaning? Something must be seriously wrong."

Harrow was washing the dishes and had her back turned to Gideon. She held a freshly cleaned plate aloft, letting it hover in the air for a second too long, but she set it harmlessly on the drying rack and continued her work.

Gideon was almost disappointed that she hadn't smashed it. Being ignored was worse than being condescended to, and it intensified her need to touch and be touched. Gideon moved and stood behind Harrow, bracing her hands on the sink on either side of her.

Harrow turned swiftly, jabbing her sharp elbow into Gideon's gut and forcing her backwards. Gideon winced and took another step back to give Harrow some space, but her wife advanced on her with a soapy knife, driving her all the way back to the kitchen table.

"I advise you not to underestimate me," said Harrow, and her voice was eeriely calm. The knife still dripped with dishwater and it trembled slightly in her grip, but she forced it to still. "Suppressing my necromantic abilities has never lessened the chance that I would kill you."

Gideon blinked at her, surprised but unafraid. In one fluid movement, she reversed their positions, grabbing Harrow's forearm and wheeling her around as easily as a dance partner. She shoved her back down onto the table, pinning both of Harrow's wrists over her head with one hand, and easily wrenched the knife away. Gideon leaned over Harrow, their legs slotted together, and her catlike yellow eyes remained on her as she casually wiped the knife on the thigh of her jeans. She pressed the dry blade to Harrow's throat.

"I advise you not to mistake my kindness for weakness," said Gideon, evenly matching her tone.

It had been a long while since Harrow had last worn the collar– and Gideon was well aware that she'd been practicing necromancy, given the absurdly large collection of bones in her dark bedroom that they both pretended wasn't there– but she could sense no change in her thanergy now. Gideon knew that Harrow could fight if she really wanted to, but she instead allowed herself to be pinned to a table.

Harrow swallowed, her throat moving against the knife. For a moment there was just the sound of the faucet, still trickling water, then Gideon said, "What is this, Harrow? Do you want me to kill you?"

There was no fear in Harrow's lightless black eyes as she pushed her throat against the blade. "Better a quick death now than the slow one I have been consigned to."

Gideon released Harrow with a sigh, stepping away from the table and taking the knife with her. She set it down in the sink and turned off the faucet. "You don't even think I'm capable of killing you, but I can't tell if it's because you think I'm that soft, or you think you're that powerful."

"Both," replied Harrow without hesitation. She sat up but remained on the table, watching Gideon disdainfully.

Gideon mimicked her expression and said in her best Nonagesimus voice, "I do not find this aspect of your personality very desirable."

"What do you want from me?" snapped Harrow, switching abruptly from controlled calm to barely contained fury. "For me to be your doll? For us to play house?"

Gideon took a grounding breath. She crossed the kitchen, returning to Harrow, and placed two fingers under her chin. When Harrow didn't immediately try to bite her, Gideon gently tilted her chin up so that she could examine where the knife had touched her throat, and was relieved when she saw that there was no cut. She took her hand away, and it didn't escape her notice that Harrow seemed disappointed.

"I want to give you the means to build a new life. And, if possible, I want to have a wife who doesn't hate me," answered Gideon, selecting her words carefully. She really did want Harrow to have options when it came to her future, but, secretly and selfishly, she had recently come to acknowledge that she was hoping that Harrow would choose her. Gideon resented herself for it, but she couldn't help wanting to be wanted.

Harrow made a derisive sound. "So, 'house' it is."

Gideon pressed her lips into a hard line and was a little bitter over the fact that she would never receive an award for all the sarcastic responses she had avoided making during this conversation. She recognized that Harrow was trying to get a rise out of her, so she went into the living room to put some distance between the two of them. Of course, Harrow hopped off the table and followed, but remained standing while Gideon dropped onto the couch. They looked at each other for a long moment, and Harrow turned away first, fidgeting with the scarf as she began to pace. There was color in her cheeks, and Gideon was absolutely soft for her.

"Neither of us can go home again, Harrow," said Gideon, gentle but firm. "Do you want to waste the rest of your life mourning what could have been?"

Harrow shook her head and she continued to pace back and forth, not looking at Gideon and, perhaps, no longer speaking to her. "I'm already a waste. You don't understand. How could you? How could anyone, except for those who made me what I am? My beloved Ninth has become an appendix of the Fifth, and soon it will disappear entirely. The Tomb is lost. I have failed at the starting line. There is no point to me, except to continue on as a trophy of war, until that use is expended as well. What is a tool without a purpose?"

Gideon reached out and caught Harrow's hand, stopping her mid-stride. She didn't move away, just stared at their joined hands with a conflicted expression; shifting from alarm to resentment, and finally to something adjacent to hunger. Gideon slowly reeled her in, pulling Harrow to her so that she had no choice but to climb onto her lap. Once she was there, Gideon wrapped her arms around Harrow and held her close. She went strangely loose and limp, the way she always did when Gideon embraced her. But Harrow's heart was beating double time, and Gideon could feel it fluttering wildly in her chest.

"You're not a trophy, and you're not a tool. You're just– I don't know– some kind of awful skeleton enthusiast with bad taste in food and a shitty sense of humor." 

They stayed that way for a while, until Gideon felt Harrow stir. She loosened her hold, expecting her to pull away, but Harrow only adjusted how she was sitting so that she could properly see Gideon's face. Her eyebrows pinched together, making that little wrinkle between them that Gideon adored, and she moved slowly but deliberately as she raised her hands to cup Gideon's face. Harrow carefully examined her warm amber eyes, the slight bump on her nasal bone from a broken nose, the constellation of freckles across her cheeks. She brushed her thumbs over Gideon's cheekbones, and Harrow's expression fell unmistakably into grief. She was looking at Gideon like she had already lost her.

"I'm right here," whispered Gideon, edging on desperation. Her hands were resting lightly on Harrow's hips and she fought the urge to grab onto her, hardly daring to move for fear of startling Harrow into stopping whatever this was. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Shut up," muttered Harrow. She closed her eyes and drifted closer to Gideon, letting their lips brush as she spoke. "Just shut up and touch me. Please, Gideon."

Gideon surged forward like a flood breaching a dam, enveloping Harrow in her arms once more and kissing her hard. She managed to resist the urge to immediately feel underneath her shirt, but she allowed her hands to roam over Harrow's back, the fabric of the shirt catching on her calloused fingers as she pressed their bodies flush together. Harrow shuddered and her own hands found purchase in Gideon's hair, tugging handfuls of the vivid red locks in a way that sent a pleased shiver up Gideon's spine to spark in the back of her skull. 

Gideon began to match tactile sensations to the places that only her eyes had previously explored– the dip in the small of Harrow's back, the hard angles of her shoulders and hips, the unexpectedly soft curves of her waist and neck. Gideon hummed in pleasure and licked at Harrow's lower lip, laughing breathlessly when her wife jerked away in surprise, only to then tentatively mimic the action.

Gideon smiled mischievously and tangled a hand in the black curls at the base of Harrow's skull, tugging and angling her head just the right way for Gideon to lick into her mouth. Harrow had been nearly silent, but she began to make hushed, breathy sounds as Gideon worked her over. When her thighs began to tremble, she pushed her palms against Gideon's shoulders. But as Gideon reluctantly drew away from her, Harrow tipped towards her and hid her reddened face in the crook of her neck. They were both breathing hard, and it was a while before either of them spoke.

Emboldened, Gideon quipped, "You know, if you want my hands on you, there are different ways to go about it besides attacking me."

"Maybe so," said Harrow, not lifting her head. She fingered the hem of Gideon's shirt and cleared her throat. "I received a letter from the Ninth, written by my seneschal. Among other things, I learned that someone dear to me has died."

Gideon fell abruptly out of cloud nine. "Harrow, I'm so sorry."

"There's more. It was delivered by a cavalier, who warned me about a threat to my life."

Gideon decided to tuck away the information about the free-roaming cavalier for a later time. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

Harrow grimaced and she twisted her fingers in the hem. Her voice was rough when she spoke, torn by the splintered edge of fresh grief. "If I am being targeted, that means you are as well. I cannot–" Harrow's voice broke and she pressed her brow to Gideon's collarbone. "Gideon, I would not be able to bear it if anything happened to you."

Affection flooded Gideon's chest. She ran a hand over Harrow's hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "It'll be alright. As long as we stay together, everything will be fine."

"Do you truly believe that?"

"I do. You look out for me, and I'll look out for you, okay?"

Harrow took a deep breath, letting her lungs fill with Gideon's scent. "Okay."

Chapter Text

Gideon didn't mind the summer heat the way some people did. Sure, living in a city on the edge of a desert had its downsides– dust storms, sweltering days and freezing nights, those giant cats that lived out in the dunes– but Gideon dearly loved sunshine. She loved the warmth and how the light made her feel energized and the way her skin turned dark brown and freckled when she was outside for too long. She loved how refreshing it was to gulp down ice water when she was overheated and cutting the sleeves off her shirts.

Harrow fared less well during the summer. She was a creature of cold and darkness through and through, and none of the clothes that she'd brought from the Ninth were suited for anything less than chilly temperatures. She had allowed Gideon to procure a few outfits for her when she'd first begun living on New Rho the previous winter, if only to pass as a non-necromancer, but having too many clothes struck her as excessive and unnecessary. So, instead, she raided Gideon's closet.

Gideon had mixed feelings about this, especially since Harrow had not asked her permission before doing so. But there was something unexpectedly endearing about discovering one of her fitted shirts hanging off of Harrow's slight frame. Despite all the time they spent together, and despite their increasingly frequent make-out sessions, Gideon hardly ever saw her dressed in anything less than complete black from head to toe. It was a thrill not only to see so much of Harrow's bare arms, but to also see her sporting a blue t-shirt printed with an advertisement for Quenchiest Cactus Juice, paired with her usual black trousers.

Gideon very badly wanted to see Harrow's uncovered legs, along with the rest of her skin, but she was willing to wait. Every time Harrow took the initiative to touch her felt like a win all on its own. And, yeah, she missed sex (as was evidenced by her lusting over her wife's forearms) and spent quite a few nights fantasizing what it might be like to have Harrow on top of her; face flushed and eyes glittering like onyx, watching Gideon intently as she came apart under her hands, bossing her around like she always did.

On one hot summer evening, after the sun had set but the heat of the day still lingered, Gideon wanted attention. She knew how to ask for it without threatening someone with a knife, so she rapped her knuckles lightly on Harrow's bedroom door. Gideon fully expected to wait a few minutes while Harrow touched up her face paint and prepared some kind of dramatic monologue, and was surprised when she answered immediately.

"Come in," called Harrow.

After Gideon recovered from her initial shock, she fumbled with the doorknob and was surprised all over again to find that it was unlocked. She very rarely entered Harrow's bedroom and had never before received such a direct invitation, so it was with a quickening heartbeat that Gideon pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The furniture had all been pushed around, keeping it away from the wall that Harrow was currently painting, and there was a drop cloth spread out to protect the floor. Gideon's breath caught in her chest, both from the overwhelming smell of glue paint and from the sight of the mural that Harrow was working on. Instead of one of her usual dreary cavern-and-skull masterpieces, she was painting a landscape that Gideon knew well; a sunset from her hideaway at the edge of the desert. The sun itself wasn't visible, but Harrow's painting took place at the moment just after it had passed beyond the horizon, saturating the sky with a multitude of colors.

Harrow was touching up the highlight on the edge of a sand dune and had her back to Gideon. She was already wearing her gloomy black nightdress, but the sleeves were pushed up to her elbows. "What do you want?"

Gideon cleared her throat and crossed the room. The smell of the paint was nearly oppressive. "I got you something. I mean, technically it's already yours, so I'm returning this to you. Finally convinced We Suffer that you're not going to use it to murder-kill me."

Harrow lowered her brush and turned to look at Gideon. The only paint adorning her face was a careless smear of orange on her left cheek. She looked down at the small box in Gideon's hand– an ancient thing, unassuming in appearance but made with real wood– and went very still when she recognized it.

Gideon shifted her weight uneasily, concerned when Harrow's silence had gone on for too long. That seemed to break the trance, and Harrow tucked the paintbrush behind her ear before wiping her palms on her thighs and accepting the box with both hands. The lid opened on a hinge and she used her thumb to flip open the latch at the front and push it up to reveal her rosary nestled safely inside. She touched it reverently, lightly tracing her fingertips over its ancient bones.

"I have not prayed as much since I arrived here, but it is good to have this heirloom returned to me," said Harrow, softly, "Thank you, Gideon."

"I'm sorry I couldn't get it back to you sooner," said Gideon, "But, well, the wing commander doesn't know that you already have a ton of pumpkins in your enclosure for enrichment."

Harrow had cleared most of her bones off the floor (read: stuffed them into the closet and under the bed) but they still littered her desk, and strings of osseous matter on clear wire decorated her room. There was even a full skeleton sitting slouched in her desk chair, which Gideon intensely disliked and tried not to look at.

Harrow did not immediately place the rosary around her neck like Gideon thought she might. She left it in its little box and tucked it gently into one of the desk drawers, leaving it safely surrounded by another of her bone collections (this one seemed to be mostly finger bones). Then, she plucked the paintbrush from behind her ear and resumed her work. She didn't say anything more and she didn't instruct Gideon to leave, so Gideon sat down on her unmade bed.

"I wish you wouldn't paint right before bed. I know it's hot out, but you should open a window or you're going to be huffing glue all night."

Harrow took so long to respond that Gideon thought she was being ignored. Eventually, she said, "If your concern weighs that heavily upon you, then you should invite me to sleep in your room."

Gideon's heart skipped a beat and she smiled. "Is that the glue talking, or are you actually inviting me to invite you?" Harrow said nothing, but her ears went pink and Gideon broke into a grin. "Harrow, if you keep flirting with me, I might get the wrong idea. I'm a married woman, you know."

"Actually," said Harrow in a much cooler tone, "I was planning on bunking with Sausage."

"I'm not going to call that bluff, because I know you'd sleep under my bed just to spite me." Gideon got up and went over to Harrow, bending slightly to hook her chin over Harrow's shoulder and slip her arms around her waist. "Okay, I yield. Please cuddle me all night long, my boney, bonny bride. My blighted betrothed. Apple of my eye, bees of my knees, cat of my pajamas–"

Harrow put her open hand on Gideon's face and gently pushed her away. "How is it that you never exhaust yourself on your own inanity?"

Undeterred, Gideon put her head on Harrow's other shoulder and whispered into her ear. "I imagine it's similar to the way you never get tired of your high-and-mighty holier-than-thou routine. Now, are you walking to my bedroom, or are you waiting for me to carry you across the threshold?"

Harrow shrugged Gideon off so that she could crouch on the floor. She dropped the paintbrush into a cup of murky water and checked that her jars of paint were all tightly closed. "Perhaps you were right about the fumes. I do feel a bit faint," said Harrow with more of that unprecedented coyness. She was obviously trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing, but her blush had spread to the back of her neck.

"Still making excuses, hm?" Gideon's reply was nearly a purr, unable to keep herself from sounding smug.

Harrow stood and faced Gideon, trying and failing to keep her expression bored and disinterested. "And what of you? I know you enjoy demonstrating how talented you are at lifting things."

"Yeah, but you weigh, like, the same as a bagel."

"Griddle."

"Alright, two bagels."

Before Harrow could say anything else, Gideon scooped her up into her arms. She planted a very loud, wet kiss onto Harrow's forehead and carried her chivalrously out of one bedroom and into the other, then dumped her unceremoniously onto the bed so that she bounced on the mattress. This set Harrow off complaining again, but Gideon cut her off by crawling on top of her and covering her mouth with her own.

Harrow grabbed onto Gideon's hair and shoulders, pulling her down and reversing their positions so that she was straddling her. The only light came from a lamp out in the living room, but a glimpse of the self-satisfied smile on Harrow's face had Gideon's stomach doing somersaults. She put a hand on Gideon's jaw, angling her mouth where she wanted before kissing her deeply.

Gideon loved how easy things could sometimes be between them. It was so nice to turn her brain off and focus only on what Harrow wanted from one moment to the next. If Harrow demanded Gideon's mouth or her hands, she could have them, along with any other part of Gideon she desired. Even without escalating into sex, it was so good to just touch and be touched, to know with absolute certainty that she was wanted.

They stopped whenever Harrow became overwhelmed, a limit that varied depending on her mood. After the heat between them cooled to embers and they lay on the rumpled bed facing each other, Gideon took her time just looking at Harrow. It somehow seemed important that she catalog the shape and color of her lips, the light reflected in her dark eyes, the mole above her right eyebrow. Harrow's eyes were always tired, but right now they were pleasantly sleepy and unfocused, watching Gideon watching her with a vague sort of satisfaction.

Gideon sluggishly brought a hand up to Harrow's throat and her fingertips traced a path along the jugular, pushing aside the high collar of Harrow's nightdress to admire the bruises that she'd just made there with her mouth. She slipped her hand to the back of Harrow's neck and shifted closer to kiss her again, soft and slow. They lay with their foreheads touching, so close that Gideon could feel the air displaced by the long sweep of Harrow's eyelashes. She felt a tug on her shirt and realized that Harrow had reached for her as well, her fingers curling into the hem of the shirt.

Gideon had managed to ignore the rising tide thus far, but now it enveloped her all at once, dragging her like a rip current out into the sea; she was in love with Harrow.

"Harrow," whispered Gideon, "Do you like living here?"

Harrow blinked slowly as she pulled herself back from the edge of sleep. She licked her lips, still tasting Gideon. "It is strange to live a life so different from the one I was born into, especially a life that has been forced upon me. I still worry about what will become of the Ninth, but, despite everything… I suppose, I have become rather content."

"What would you think about moving? Living somewhere else, maybe another galaxy?"

Harrow's brow furrowed. "You want to live on a different planet?"

"Not exactly."

"Don't be vague. Tell me what you mean."

Gideon took a moment to collect herself. She carded her fingers through Harrow's hair. "I came to New Rho because I wanted to build things. And, after our marriage was arranged, I stayed because I thought we would be safe here. I know that I'll always be tied to the Blood of Eden and my mother's legacy, but I had hoped… I guess it was stupid to think I wouldn't have to be responsible for the mess she made. The mess I helped her make."

"Yes, 'the sins of the father', et cetera, et cetera. What of them?"

"Blood of Eden hasn't had a central commander since my mother died five years ago. The wing commanders have done their best, but they argue and there's a lot of personal politics, some infighting–"

"They want you to take her place." Harrow's eyes lit up with realization.

"I've been avoiding it for as long as I can, but I have been getting more involved recently, if only to make sure that things are better for you. I wanted to leave the war behind me. I don't want to be responsible for any more death. Besides, I'd just be a figurehead. They don't want Gideon Led The Soldiers to actually lead anyone. They just want a stand-in for my mom."

"If you're the one in charge, then you can decide for yourself what that means."

"You know it won't be that easy."

"I know. I managed the Ninth House on my own for nearly a decade, but, in the end, I was just acting as a stand-in for my parents." Harrow sighed and Gideon wanted to kiss away all of the sorrow that had ever touched her. "Despite my efforts, I didn't manage to change or improve anything. I just happened to be the last captain alive on a sinking ship."

"I forgot that you ran a whole planet," said Gideon, thoughtlessly. Harrow looked a little offended by this, but the gears in Gideon's brain were already moving ahead. "You could help me do this."

"Although it is true that I am exceedingly talented, I highly doubt that Blood of Eden would be inclined to allow a necromancer to take on a position of leadership." Harrow chewed on the inside of her cheek, her gaze becoming distant, but excitement was sparking in Gideon's chest and she pushed herself up onto her elbows.

"C'mon, hear me out– not only would you be an excellent source of information regarding the super mysterious Nine Houses while we work to restructure their government, but you're also married to the only child of the late Commander Wake. And it was Blood of Eden's idea! They can't stop us."

Harrow was amused by Gideon's sudden switch in demeanor. "You aren't concerned that I would go mad with power?"

"You would absolutely go mad with power, but I support both gremlins' rights and gremlins' wrongs," said Gideon decidedly. She abruptly sobered as another thought occurred to her. "If we do this, I'd be putting you in danger."

Harrow shocked them both by letting out a snort of genuine laughter. "Gosh and golly, Griddle! I've never had my life threatened before. Consider my jimmies rustled."

"Holy shit, don't talk like that. You'll make me think I'm having an aneurysm." Gideon smiled affectionately and traced a finger along the sharp edge of Harrow's jaw. "We wouldn't be able to live quietly like this anymore. We would be traveling a lot."

Harrow considered this. "Would Sausage be able to accompany us?"

"I'll insist on it."

"Well then, let us consider the matter settled. You will assume the position of Commander, and I will assist you in your rise to power."

"Like an evil advisor in the comics. Very hot."

"You are incorrigible."

They reluctantly got out of bed to perform their respective evening ablutions. When they were done and the lights were all off, Gideon wordlessly took Harrow's hand and pulled her along when she hesitated at the threshold to Gideon's bedroom. They got under the blankets and Sausage came out from under the bed to lie at to Harrow's feet, purring loudly. Gideon's heart was full and she daydreamed about their future together as she listened to Harrow breathing in the darkness next to her.

"Would you settle down?" whispered Harrow.

"I didn't say anything." Gideon rolled onto her side and shuffled closer until she could rest her head on Harrow's shoulder.

"You are thinking too loudly."

"If you're reading my thoughts, that sounds like a personal problem," whispered Gideon. And because she couldn't help thinking about the plans they would make together, the shared life they would build, "We'll be traveling in and out of the Houses. We could visit your home. I'd like to meet your family, if that's alright."

Harrow stopped breathing for a moment and went entirely still. She shifted uncomfortably, moving slightly away from Gideon.

"Harrow?"

Harrow inhaled, unsteadily. "When we married, I left behind someone I love on the Ninth."

Gideon said nothing. Her heart was a stone dropped into deep water. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She rolled onto her back, away from Harrow.

Harrow continued, in the cadence of someone making a religious confession, "I loved her since I was a child. I loved her on sight, and I thought I would give my whole life to her."

Gideon swallowed once, twice. It had been so many weeks since then, but she remembered Harrow asking her if they were playing house. Was her being here, lying next to Gideon, part of some game? It wouldn't be the first time someone had approached her for the novelty of seducing a demigod. Gideon's stomach churned.

"But, the longer I'm here…" Harrow sighed. "I don't know. I have been on New Rho for less than one of your Edenite years, and yet there are already certain things about the Ninth that seem less real to me. Less tangible."

Gideon wondered what kind of person the girl who held Harrow's heart was. Who was Gideon acting as the substitute for? Did Harrow only want her because she was readily available at arm's reach? What if they did visit the Ninth and–

Harrow pinched Gideon's arm mercilessly.

Gideon jerked out of her grasp, tears stinging her eyes. "Ow! What–"

"I can tell that you are thinking unnecessary thoughts," scolded Harrow. "Never mind. I should not have told you that."

"What? No– no, thank you for telling me." Gideon floundered for the right thing to say. "It's good to know that you haven't always had a black hole for a heart!"

That was absolutely not the right thing to say.

"Sorry. I didn't–"

"Go to sleep, Griddle." Harrow rolled onto her side, facing away from Gideon. "All of your problems will still be here in the morning."

"You always say the sweetest things," said Gideon, her voice quavering a little at the end. Harrow didn't respond, but that was fair. Gideon reached a hand towards her, hesitated, and thought better of it. "Goodnight, Harrow."

Great job, idiot, Gideon berrated herself. She knew she was overreacting. Harrow didn't have it in her to pretend to like anyone, so there was no way she could lie to Gideon like that. Still, it was hard for her not to flinch at old wounds. It was hard for her to acknowledge that the girl she loved so ardently was in love with someone else.

But maybe that didn't have to matter. Regardless of everything else, Gideon was responsible for Harrow. She would work hard, keep her safe, make her happy. She would become the best wife she could be. Even if Harrow never returned her feelings, that was fine. She would support her, cherish her, and ensure that Harrow would outlive her. Gideon loved her, and that was what mattered.

Gideon scooted across the bed, closing the distance between them, and pressed the frontal bone in her skull to the top of Harrow's thoracic vertebrae. Harrow tensed, then relaxed. She said nothing, but she didn't move away. Gideon matched her breathing to Harrow's, slow and even, and they both drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Two months following the death of Commander Wake, her ghost appeared in Pash's doorway. It was early in the morning and she'd had to do a double-take at the familiar sight of wild red hair, but after rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Pash recognized Gideon from when they'd met at the Commander's funeral.

"Shit," said Pash. "Is that today?"

Gideon stared expressionlessly at her. She had a duffle bag over one shoulder and stood, silent and motionless, out in the hallway.

Pash clicked her tongue piercing against her teeth. The daughter was both younger and shorter than Pash had previously imagined. She was broad shouldered and had a firm jaw, but if Pash looked past the corded muscle and hardened eyes that marked her as a solider, there was a slight roundness to her cheeks that betrayed her age. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen, in standard years," stated Gideon, and added for posterity, "Seventeen, in House years."

"Practically a baby," said Pash, who was less than a decade older than her by either calendar. She took a step back, jutted her chin at the interior of the apartment, and Gideon stepped inside. Pash closed the door behind her, then went into the kitchen. It was still a while until sunrise, but she knew she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep and set a pot of water on the stove to boil. "Didn't know you were gonna be here so damn early."

"The local time is five in the morning," said Gideon. She stood at the edge of the kitchen, still holding her duffle bag.

"I know," grumbled Pash. She sat down at the tiny kitchen table and kicked the other chair out towards Gideon, its legs scraping across the floor. "Sit down. The hovering pisses me off."

Gideon promptly did as told, tucking the duffle bag beneath her chair, and sitting straight up with her hands in her lap. The last time Pash saw her, Gideon had chemical burns on the left side of her face and stitches holding together a nasty gash above her eyebrow. Now, they were gone and the remaining scar was almost too faint to make out. In fact, Gideon seemed to have no scars at all. Creepy. Pash leaned back in the chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You'll be sleeping on the couch, for now. Your arrival overlaps with Aim's departure, but they'll be moving out at the end of the month. Wing Commander We Suffer will let us know if there are any jobs for you, but she mostly just wants you to stay out of trouble. Any questions?"

Gideon's animal-like yellow eyes finally looked away from Pash, cautiously taking in her surroundings. The water was beginning to bubble in the pot, and a wall clock quietly ticked away. Otherwise, the quiet of the early morning was pervasive throughout the apartment. "And then what?"

Pash scrunched her face. "What do you mean?"

"After the Messenger moves out, what's my next directive?" Prompted by Pash's bewildered expression, Gideon explained, "My current directive is 'stay out of trouble.'"

"As long as I'm responsible for you, that's your permanent directive." Pash pushed herself back onto her feet and opened a cupboard. "Coffee?"

"Sure."

Pash returned to the table carrying two steaming mugs of instant coffee. The ticking clock carried the conversation as they sat and waited for their drinks to cool. Pash watched Gideon lift the mug to her face, wrinkle her nose, and stick her tongue out to dip it in the coffee.

Gideon scraped her tongue on the rim of the mug. "Do you have any sugar?"

Pash sighed. "Maybe Aim will know what to do with you."

–

Aim did not know what to do with her. On the surface, Gideon was reserved and obedient, but it became immediately obvious why she couldn't return to active duty. Commander Wake had conditioned Gideon too well; she had never feared any authority other than that of her mother, and, now that Wake was dead, she listened to no one. She ignored the few requests that We Suffer sent her, and often did as she pleased. This tended to involve a great deal of reading and exercising, but Gideon also kept an erratic sleep schedule and frequently snuck out at night. She was immune to both Pash's anger and Aim's gentle reasoning, and was too skilled to let either of them follow her when she went out.

In the end, Aim discovered the truth of Gideon's night life entirely by accident. They had returned to the apartment well after midnight, following a chaotic day at the clinic. Pash, having acted as chauffeur, scoffed at the empty couch and went to bed immediately. Aim was still anxious from work, even after bathing and changing into a fresh set of clothes, and they stayed up for a while longer, nursing a cup of tea. When they were nearly calm enough to turn in for bed, a noise from outside the living room windows set their nerves alight once more. But it was only Gideon, somehow unlatching the reinforced locks that Pash had installed, and shimmying through the open window.

Gideon moved as noiselessly as possible, reset the locks, and went into the kitchen without acknowledging Aim. She extracted a bag of frozen vegetables from the freezer and pressed it over a newly blackened eye.

"Good evening, Gideon," Aim greeted her quietly, not wanting to disturb Pash.

"Evening, Doc." Gideon remained in front of the refrigerator, her back to Aim.

"That was quite the feat, making an entrance of a window on the twenty-first floor. Would you care for some tea?"

Gideon shook her head mutely.

"Would you like me to have a look at your eye?"

"No," Gideon replied sharply, but then added, "Thanks, but this is nothing."

"It doesn't seem like nothing."

"It'll be gone by tomorrow. Like it was never even there."

"Does that bother you?" The bitterness in Gideon's voice wasn't lost on Aim.

"Why would it bother me? If I didn't heal like I do, then– Well, I might be slightly less handsome. Or slightly more dead. Bit of a toss-up."

Aim raised their eyebrows very slightly. Gideon rarely spoke in more than two sentences at a time, so this was positively chatty for the taciturn youth. "May I ask how you got that black eye?"

"You'll tell Pash."

"Not if you don't want me to. Here, I promise."

Gideon turned and saw that Aim's mouth was curved into a gentle smile as they held out one hand and extended their smallest finger towards her.

"Are you serious?" Gideon scoffed.

"A pinky swear is more binding than a blood oath," insisted Aim. They did not retract their offer, so Gideon cautiously approached them. After a final assessing look at Aim's hand, Gideon briefly linked their pinkies together and took a seat at the table.

"I started hanging out with a group of people my age," confessed Gideon in a whisper. She lowered the bag of vegetables onto the table. Beneath the black eye, there was a crust of dried blood on her cheekbone where there had previously been a cut. "I met them at the beach one night."

"You made friends?"

"No," Gideon said flatly. "No, I… friends don't lie to each other, do they?"

Aim considered this. "I think that depends on the friend, and how big of a lie it is."

"I lied about my name," said Gideon. She scratched at a stain on the surface of the table. "I lied about who I was, and someone found out. I won't be seeing them anymore. I won't do that again."

"You won't lie?"

"No– I won't try to meet people."

Aim looked at her sadly. "I'm sorry, Gideon."

"Why? It was my fault."

"I'm sorry that you haven't had the opportunity to fail gracefully."

Gideon's head jerked up. "What does that mean?"

"Forgive me if I am overreaching," said Aim, folding their hands together. "But it would seem to me that one of the benefits of being young is being allowed to try things, and to fail at them."

Gideon stared incredulously at them. "I've brought victory to every battle I've been thrown into since I was fourteen. I helped end the war."

"Yes," agreed Aim. "You were never allowed to fail. And now, because of who you are and what you've done, the stakes will always be high for you. Failure will always feel too big to handle."

"If this is a pep talk, you're doing a terrible job. I should've just let Pash yell at me."

"Forgive me, it's late. What I'm trying to say is that relationships are hard. People usually aren't easy to get along with. You have to constantly work at them, build trust over time, and, even if you've known and loved someone for years and years, you'll still have the occasional argument with them."

The corners of Gideon's mouth turned down. "How can someone love you if you're always arguing with them?"

"Pash needs to argue in the way that a tree needs sunlight," said Aim. They smiled reassuringly at Gideon. "You'll take good care of her after I leave, Gideon?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you." Aim glanced at the black eye. "I don't think you should give up on meeting people, but you should try to stay out of fights."

"It wasn't a fight. I left after I got punched." Gideon brought the bag of frozen vegetables back up to her eye, hiding it from Aim. "I don't want to fight anymore."

"Is that why you left the front lines?"

Gideon nodded. "I don't want to be a soldier."

"Who do you want to be?" asked Aim. Gideon's visible eye widened with alarm, so Aim backtracked. "That's alright. You don't have to figure it out now, but you should keep it in mind. While you're learning what kind of people you want to have in your life, you should also consider what kind of friend you'd like to be for someone else."

Gideon nodded solemnly. She chewed on her lip, then asked, "Before you leave, could you please teach me how to cook?"

"Gladly. We'll start tomorrow."

–

At the end of the month, Aim was gone. Pash had become increasingly antagonistic the week leading up to their departure, and Gideon suspected that she would be even worse after the fact. Instead, Pash got the depression. She wallowed in her darkened bedroom, rarely emerging except for food and to use the bathroom. Gideon let her be, and took the initiative to cook and clean for the both of them.

One morning, when they had a meeting with the Wing Commander scheduled for later that day and Pash was forced to rejoin society, they finally ate breakfast together. Gideon wasn't sure when she would get another chance to talk to Pash like this, so she set down her fork and got straight to the point.

"I've been thinking about what Aim said. About deciding what kind of person I want to be."

Pash blinked at her. Gideon's expression was set and unusually determined, so Pash lifted her mug of coffee and swirled it before taking a sip. "And?"

"I want to be a fuckboy."

To Pash's credit, she did not spit out her mouthful of coffee. She gulped it down before she could choke on it and thumped her mug on the table. "You keep getting goddamn weirder every goddamn day. Alright, let's hear it. Why do you want to be a fuckboy?"

"I'm tired of only knowing three people. I want to start having more social interactions and going on dates. I want people to like me, maybe." Gideon's steady tone faltered slightly here, but she pushed through it. "But I don't want to pretend that I understand how relationships work, so I won't. I want to fuck around and not worry about the consequences."

What would Aim say? Pash clicked her tongue piercing against her teeth, a tell that Gideon had come to recognize as her brain working overtime. "Sounds like a quick way to get hurt. And to hurt other people."

"I don't want– I don't care about that," said Gideon, with so much emphasis that Pash almost believed her. She went on, the steel in her voice bending and giving way to desperation. "Pash, I'm starting to realize how much I don't know about anything. I don't have any life skills that aren't related to murder. I don't know how to dance or schedule a doctor's appointment. I'd never gone grocery shopping until this month. I– I don't know how to make friends, or tell when it's okay to hug someone.

"It didn't bother me before, but people look at me differently when they know who I am. And I can tell that they don't like what they see." Gideon sat back in her chair, slouching under the weight of her own ineptitude. Pash had never seen so much emotion on her face, and watched her troubled expression the same way some people watched the aftermath of car wrecks. Gideon had never looked less like her mother than in that moment, with her sorrow on full display. "I just want to be someone else."

Pash scrubbed her hands over her face. It was too fucking early for this. "Okay. Fucking fuck, okay. Let me finish breakfast, and then I guess I'm giving you the safe sex talk. Shit– Aim would want me to talk to you about consent, too. Fucking shit damnit."

"I'll make a list," said Gideon, sounding relieved. And, for the first time, Pash saw her smile. It was a crooked, fragile thing that vanished as soon as it appeared, but its effects lingered in the unprecedented warmth in Gideon's voice. "Thank you, Pash."

Pash grunted and reached for her coffee.

–

Months blended into years. Even though the Houses had officially surrendered to the Blood of Eden, the war continued. There were governments to reshuffle, rogue Cohort soldiers to round up, and blood debts to be repaid. Gideon distanced herself from it all, choosing instead to focus on helping the community around her through a series of ongoing construction projects. Using her hands to build things felt natural and right in a way that nothing else ever had, and she threw herself into her work.

In a way, the construction job and Pash were the two most stable things in Gideon's life. She never made lasting friendships or dated anyone seriously; people entered and exited her heart like they were moving through a revolving door. It was a lonely way to live, but it was simple and uncomplicated. Besides, Gideon was more than used to being alone.

In hindsight, it had been foolish of her to assume that as long as she kept her head down and her nose clean, that the Blood of Eden would never ask anything more of her. Gideon had hoped that if she made enough jokes and took nothing seriously, then no one would ever take her seriously. Instead, she found herself volunteered to become the keystone in a plan that she had absolutely no interest in.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Pash rounded on Gideon as soon as she emerged from her bedroom, smacking her on the back of the head.

"Shh," pleaded Gideon. She leaned bodily on the kitchen counter and tried to collect herself after Pash's hand rattled her brain and set her ears ringing. She'd only gotten home a few hours ago and her hangover was monumental. "Small voice. Small baby bird. Thank you."

"You're getting too fucking old to act like this." Pash banged around the kitchen. Gideon hadn't fully opened her eyes and couldn't tell if she was actually doing something or just making noise for her benefit.

"If I'm old, then you must be ancient." A glass was placed loudly on the counter in front of Gideon and she grimaced. The color and consistency of its contents were highly suspicious. "What is this?"

"Hangover cure. Drink it."

Gideon pinched her nose, tipped her head back, and gulped half of it down before she retched and had to stop. There was definitely raw egg in that. Gideon cleared her throat and did feel better, if only for having something that wasn't alcohol in her stomach. "I had a bachelorette party."

"For three days?"

"Yop." Gideon rubbed her hands over her face and scalp and neck. "Don't worry, I stayed hydrated. Or, are you mad that I didn't invite you?"

"I don't want to babysit your groupies of the week." Pash slapped a manilla envelope against Gideon's face. "Here. The information you wanted on the Ninth House."

"Finally!" Gideon sat on the counter and eagerly tore it open.

"What do you care? You hate this plan."

"I do, but I should know about my future spouse. The Ninth House hasn't contributed to the Cohort in several generations, so I've never had to fight them."

Pash rolled her eyes and leaned on the counter next to her. "They can be killed just the same as all the other zombies."

Gideon frowned as she went through the report, rubbing at her temples in an attempt to assuage her headache. The Ninth's population was a fraction of the other Houses and it was low on wealth and resources. All of the Houses were built on dead planets, but the Ninth was sliding into decay at an alarming rate, accelerated by a plague that had wiped out an entire generation of children. The previous monarchs had killed themselves, leaving behind a daughter to inherit their wretched legacy.

A dark photograph had been included in the report and Gideon held it up to the light. In the foreground, there were the blurry but recognizable uniforms of Cohort soldiers. A pair of people behind them were in focus, but moving away from the camera. Gideon recognized the gray robes of the scion of the Sixth House, his hands raised in mid-gesture and his head turned towards his conversation partner. The Reverend Daughter was a slight figure concealed entirely in layers of black, a cloaked and hidden enigma.

Gideon put the photo aside and flipped through the rest of the flimsy. There was more information on the economics (poor) and demographics (old) of the Ninth House, but little on the Reverend Daughter herself. She reportedly specialized in bone magic, but not much was known about that since there were no bone wizards in the Cohort. Gideon was able to glean that she and her bride were roughly the same age, and that she would have been young when her parents died. The rest was easy to guess: the House Officials had decided to offer up the weakest among them as their sacrificial lamb, someone who'd had no direct involvement in the war and no protection. The Ninth princess would be ripped away from the home that she struggled to keep afloat, and her neck placed upon the altar in order to appease the Blood of Eden.

Gideon closed the file, feeling strange. She realized, a bit belatedly, that it was pity she felt. It settled uncomfortably in her stomach alongside the nausea from her hangover, and she knocked back the rest of her questionable beverage in an attempt to drown it.

"When is she coming to New Rho?" asked Gideon.

"In a few months. I don't remember the day."

"When are we moving?"

"What?"

"What?" Gideon and Pash looked at each other, equally perplexed. Slowly, Gideon ventured, "This is a two bedroom apartment. We don't have room for her and the bodyguard."

Pash let out a harsh bark of laughter. "That zombie isn't going to live here. And the minion's not invited."

"Where will she–?"

"A holding cell, most likely. One of the nicer ones, with the other zombies who are too valuable to kill."

"No," said Gideon, with a hard inflection that Pash had learned to be wary of. She shoved the report back into the envelope and hopped off the counter. "I'll talk to We Suffer about it."

"Gid," said Pash warningly.

"They're not keeping my fiance in a prison. She'll live with me."

"Gideon. She's a zombie."

"Really?" Gideon affected mock surprise. "I've never seen one of those before!"

"Why do you care about this? You didn't want to get involved!"

They bickered in circles about it, getting nowhere. Gideon didn't know how to make Pash understand that, in her experience, monsters weren't always monsters. Sometimes, they were just girls.

–

"Is that all you've got? I've taken harder hits from Sausage!" Gideon bounced from foot to foot in front of Harrow, taunting her. She held out a strike pad and wriggled it alluringly.

"I am a necromancer, Griddle!" Harrow groaned and raised her fists, shifting her feet into the stance that Gideon had shown her. "We are not designed for physical prowess."

"A poor little meow-meow is what you are! Come on, hit me like you mean it!"

Harrow did mean it, but there was only so much force she could put into a punch. She couldn't even complete a single pull-up. But Harrow punched when Gideon bid her to, and paid attention when her form was corrected.

Pash lingered at the edge of the floor mats, silently watching. There wasn't anyone else in the gym with them and Harrow wasn't sure why she was there, so she ignored her for the most part. When Gideon called for a hydration break and they went to retrieve their water bottles from the bench where they'd left their things, Pash didn't even look at Harrow.

Harrow didn't care. Being ignored was easier to deal with than open animosity. She turned her back on the Edenite and spoke to Gideon. "I appreciate that you reserved this space for our use. I would not enjoy an audience."

"She didn't," grunted Pash. It was the closest she had ever come to addressing Harrow directly, but Harrow opted not to acknowledge her.

"I come around the same time on the same days, so people can avoid me if they want to," explained Gideon. "And, they usually do."

"Does that bother you?"

Gideon shrugged dismissively, but Harrow had learned to read her too well. She could see that Gideon carried her sadness like a second skin, that she knew how to move with it so that it didn't weigh her down.

"If you want her to bulk up, she needs to be eating more protein," Pash said to Gideon, returning to her typical way of speaking around Harrow instead of to her. "Are you hoarding all the meat coupons?"

"Harrow's a vegetarian."

Pash's disgusted reaction implied that this was a personal offense. "She's lucky enough to have access to real meat and doesn't even eat it."

"I am uninterested in being responsible for anymore death," Harrow said coolly. Pash looked at her now, but Harrow couldn't parse her expression. The moment passed when Gideon dropped a towel over Harrow's head and ruffled her hair.

"Let's do some cool down stretches and then we're done for today. Sound good, sugar lips?"

Harrow wasn't sure how she felt about Gideon using a pet name where other people could hear her, but she nodded her assent and watched Gideon cartwheel back onto the mat. Show off.

"Hey," said Pash.

Harrow begrudgingly turned towards Pash and beheld her with typical Ninth House scorn. "What?"

There was a clicking sound that Harrow didn't recognize at first, then realized that Pash was knocking her tongue piercing against her teeth.

"If you break her heart, I'll kill you."

Harrow smiled derisively. "I'll take care of it, but thanks for the offer."

Pash watched as Harrow tried and failed to touch her toes. The princess yelped when Gideon put her hands on her back, laughing as she tried to help her reach them. It escalated into them swatting at each other, and culminated with Gideon lifting Harrow like a sack of potatoes over her shoulder. She spun them in circles, both of them yelling.

"A match made in hell," sighed Pash

Chapter Text

The going trend among members of the Blood of Eden was to dress oneself dramatically in layers of dark fabric, along with a hood and mask. Gideon could tolerate wearing black trousers and shirts, but she refused to don anything resembling a cloak during warmer weather and insisted that her face was far too gorgeous to tolerate being concealed. She also carried no visible firearms– with the exception of her biceps, which she would occasionally refer to as 'the gun show, pew pew.' If the Edenites were looking for her to act as a cookie cutter replacement for Commander Wake, then they would be sorely disappointed to find that their shared resemblance began and ended with Gideon's flame-red hair.

Harrow, on the other hand, deeply adored dressing dramatically in layers of dark fabric and concealing her face. When the weather grew colder and Gideon began to lovingly eye a bright orange puffy jacket in the window of a thrift shop near work, Harrow intervened. She pointed out that the Edenites were less likely to respect a Commander who dressed in graphic tees and orange puffy jackets, so it was with a heavy heart that Gideon abandoned her puffy orange dreams and unearthed her old uniforms from the back of the closet.

The Blood of Eden didn't actually have official uniforms, but Gideon still thought of them as such since her mother had been the one to pick out her clothes when she was a soldier. They were well-made and had sat around collecting dust for long enough that Gideon couldn't smell the death on them anymore, so she tried them on and tried not to think too hard about it. They fit awkwardly now, which made her feel a little better. But when Gideon requested her wife's assistance with some adjustments, she was unprepared for the expression of nearly manic enthusiasm that spread across Harrow's face like wildfire.

"What you need to understand, dear Griddle, is that presentation makes all the difference. Looking the part is essential to how your followers perceive their sovereign." Harrow unrolled her leather sewing kit and ran her fingers lovingly over a collection of needles. Several of them were of a size that Gideon thought exceeded practical use, and looking at them for too long made her stomach queasy.

"I hate these clothes. I can't believe we're having a reversal of the 'you need to dress better' conversation, and that it's resulting in my increased goth-ification," complained Gideon. "Also, you're lucky that I'm so devastatingly attractive that I can make any fashion choice look good."

"You are lucky that I have extensive experience in sewing, along with a willingness to work with my recalcitrant wife. Now, straighten your spine and do not move while I measure you."

Harrow only referred to Gideon as 'honored wife' when she was annoyed, so any other adjective paired with the word 'wife' was automatically affectionate and had the effect of instantly flustering Gideon. She immediately clammed up and stood at attention while Harrow frowned at a length of measuring tape and instructed her at intervals to raise and lower her arms while she moved the tape around, silently mouthing the numbers to herself. When Harrow was finished, she sat on the couch and opened one of her journals to make notes in cramped, spidery handwriting. She looked Gideon over with a critical eye several times– lingering unprofessionally on her new pair of bright red exercise shorts, which had been purchased in lieu of the jacket– and finally took notice of her goofy, lopsided grin.

"What are you smiling about?"

Gideon's irises sparkled like sunlight. "You."

Harrow rolled her eyes and gestured to one of the jackets in the uniform pile that Gideon had dumped onto the living room floor. Gideon wordlessly passed it to her, then she dropped onto the couch next to Harrow, casually snaking an arm around so that her hand came to rest on her wife's hip. Harrow leaned into Gideon as she continued her work with the measuring tape.

"The shoulders will likely need to be taken in on all of these," mused Harrow.

"Taken in?" echoed Gideon. She sighed dejectedly. "I guess I'm not as beefy as I used to be."

"Since you have not been engaged in active combat for several years? I am not surprised."

"Harrow, I've been inviting people to the gun show this entire time. Is this why no one is buying tickets?"

"Shut up." Harrow elbowed her playfully in the ribs. She removed a chalk pencil from her sewing kit and began to mark the shoulders and arms of the jacket. Apropos of nothing, she said, "Do you recall the day I received a letter from the Ninth, delivered by a cavalier?"

Gideon remembered it as the day they had first kissed. She squeezed Harrow's hip. "Yeah?"

"I elected not to tell you this at the time, but there was another part to the message that Hect relayed to me." Harrow paused to gauge her reaction, but Gideon only watched with polite interest. "The Sixth told me that I should use my position as your spouse to my advantage. That I could use my shrewdness and cunning to gain favor for the Houses."

Gideon waited for Harrow to continue, but that was apparently the whole of it. "Isn't that what you want?"

Harrow turned the jacket inside out to examine the stitching. "I care about what becomes of the Ninth, but I am largely unconcerned with the fates of the other Houses."

"Excuse me," said Gideon indignantly, "but haven't you given me several lectures about my duty to everyone affected by the Blood of Eden? 'Within and without the Houses,' yadda yadda?"

"I have, but that is what you wish to accomplish, is it not?" said Harrow, neatly redirecting Gideon's very correct accusations of hypocrisy. "You aspire to become a leader who cares for all of her people, someone who builds and restores."

Harrow held the jacket out to Gideon, who got up from the couch and exchanged it for a different one from the pile. She examined the one that Harrow had just finished marking, flipping it right side out to look at the chalk marks on the shoulders. She wondered if she ought to change her workout regimen.

"Okay, you're not wrong. Still, why bring it up now?" asked Gideon.

"I wanted to mention it before someone else could. Since the moratorium on my written correspondence has ended, I have received letters from a number of the Houses with appeals for aid. I do not wish for my motives to ever come into question."

"I trust you, Harrow."

Harrow gave her a sharp look. "Listen, Gideon. If you had not asked for me to assist you, it is unlikely that I would have ever acted in the interest of the Houses. I will do so now only to gain favor with them, so that support for you as Commander may grow. I want you to know, with absolute certainty, that I do this for you."

Gideon blinked at her. "Because I asked you to?"

"Yes." Harrow's intense void-black stare left Gideon and she tapped the chalk pencil thoughtfully against her chin, leaving white marks. "I suppose that I do care somewhat for the Fifth, who have treated the Ninth House with more care and diligence than I initially gave them credit for. And there was a time, not so long ago, when I might have called the Master Warden a colleague." Harrow nodded decidedly to herself. "They will be the easiest of the House officials to bend to our will."

Gideon dropped the jacket she was holding and plucked the other one from Harrow's hands, tossing it aside. Harrow eyed her knowingly and put aside the sewing kit just in time for Gideon to crawl onto her lap, straddling her legs and cupping her face to kiss her again and again.

"I know I keep saying this," murmured Gideon as she thumbed chalk off Harrow's chin, "but the evil advisor role is extremely hot on you."

"Yes, yes– You're extremely easy to please." Harrow pat Gideon's bare thigh. "Get off. You're too tall to keep this up."

"I'm not that tall, you're just incredibly pocket-sized," argued Gideon, who admittedly did have to hunch to make this work. She added, in a low, conspiratorial tone, "I think you care more about the Houses than you like to let on. But sure, I'll let you play the cold, calculating type."

Gideon tipped sideways and sprawled across the couch, letting her legs rest on top of Harrow's. She wasn't surprised when Harrow huffed and wriggled out from under her, but Gideon's breath did catch in her throat when her wife climbed on top of her. Harrow made herself comfortable on Gideon's chest and took her time just looking at her. She seemed to do this more often recently, as though taking inventory of each part of her face.

Harrow touched her long fingers to Gideon's sternum and traced it up past her clavicle, lingered on the mandible, scraped her nails over the scalp that covered her temporal and parietal. Gideon let her eyes slip shut as a shiver made its way through her, and she felt the soft press of Harrow's warm mouth on her own.

With her eyes closed, Gideon's world narrowed to the places where her body met Harrow's. Their hands were in each other's hair and slipping underneath shirts to map the expanse of the other's skin. The quickening of their breath was marked by the movement of their ribs and by the small sounds that escaped their lips. Harrow's mouth made a path of lingering kisses along Gideon's jaw, her hips shifting and– with startling aggression– inserting a knee between Gideon's thighs. Her fingers kept returning to tease the edge of the exercise shorts, which meant she either intensely liked or intensely disliked them.

Gideon sighed when Harrow's mouth found her own again, kissing her deeply. Just this, she thought, or maybe wished. Just this, forever.

No hardship, sorrow, or pain could ever touch her again, not as long as she belonged to Harrow. Everything else paled in comparison to the bright, warm feeling that lived inside her ribcage. Nothing else could stand against what it felt like to hold Harrow's hand in her own, to watch Harrow's expression soften when her eyes found Gideon's across a room, to listen to the sound of Harrow breathing in the bed next to her. To feel Harrow's fingers tease the band of her shorts, then slip deftly beneath the fabric–

"H-hey now!" Gideon caught Harrow's wrist, intervening as though she'd been reaching for a hot stove. They hadn't talked about how they hadn't crossed the line into sex. Gideon assumed that Harrow had some kind of religious hang-up (or, as the secret, jealous voice that resided in the back of her brain liked to suggest, maybe it had something to do with the girl she loved back on the Ninth). Either way, Gideon had never broached the subject out of fear of losing what they did have. Because, even though she belonged to Harrow, Gideon knew that Harrow did not belong to her.

But now, Harrow did not retract her hand and she was looking at Gideon curiously, searching her face for something. "I want to touch you," she said, stating the obvious. And, when Gideon did not let go of her wrist and continued to stare dumbstruck, "I want you to show me how you like to be touched."

Gideon made an undignified sound and her face flushed. "Fuck, Harrow. Is this what does it for you? Sewing projects?"

"I find it quite enjoyable when you do exactly what I tell you to," said Harrow. Her tone was unabashed, but the tips of her ears were turning pink. "Although, I will admit that the shorts piqued my interest. Should I stop?"

"Don't stop," said Gideon eagerly, quickly releasing her wrist. The reality of the situation began to sink in, making her feel giddy. "I'm ready to be unexpectedly seduced by my evil advisor in her bid to gain sexual dominance over me."

"Griddle." The way Harrow said her nickname was almost always condescending, but this time especially so.

"Yes, please touch me," Gideon said in a rush. And, breathlessly, "I've been thinking about you."

Harrow raised an eyebrow at Gideon and the usual dour slant of her mouth quirked into something else. She was all at once surprised, exasperated, and hopelessly fond. "I know."

Gideon generally preferred to turn her brain off when she was fucking or getting fucked, but being with Harrow was different. She wished that time would slow so that she could be fully present in each moment as it happened. Gideon wanted to ensure that she would later remember how Harrow's blush started with her ears and spread to her chest. She wanted to recall again and again how quickly Harrow advanced from hesitant touches and asking, "is this alright?" to, more confidently, "move your leg." And, when Gideon didn't comply quickly enough, Harrow put her hand under Gideon's knee and maneuvered her as she desired.

Gideon knocked her elbow on the coffee table and laughed when Harrow gave the furniture a death-glare as she shoved it aside. They moved from the couch, to the floor, to the bedroom. Gideon fell in love with each new aspect of Harrow's body that was revealed to her. She loved learning the sharp jut of Harrow's hips, and loved the dusting of black hair on her legs, and loved how Harrow's breasts fit in her hands, in her mouth. She loved how her name sounded when Harrow murmured it against her skin between moans and gasps, her blunt nails scraping pleasantly over Gideon's back and shoulders.

"Gideon… Gideon!"

"Yup, that's me," said Gideon cheekily, earning a swat on her arm. She smiled and redeemed herself with a curl of her fingers, making Harrow shudder and pull her closer.

I love you, Gideon did not say. I love you so much that it hurts. I sometimes feel like my heart is too big for my chest, like it could grow and ache until it combusts. My love for you could burn me up from the inside out, and I would die happy and warm from just the thought of you. If my heart wasn't made for my chest, does that mean it was meant to live in yours? Is this a normal way to feel? I don't know if I love you the right way. I don't know that I would be capable, even if I knew what the right way was. I'm trying my best, and I hope it's enough. Am I enough for you? Do you think that maybe, possibly– if we were born in another time, another place, if you weren't you and I wasn't me– could you love me, too?

Harrow was drowsy with satisfaction and had nearly drifted off to sleep, but Gideon caught her attention. She was lying on her side and her warm amber eyes were watching Harrow, soft and searching, and something else. The blinds were closed, but it was the middle of the afternoon and Gideon's bedroom was filled with the muted glow of daylight. The traffic on the streets below faded into white noise as Harrow focused on the soft sound of Gideon breathing next to her. When Gideon noticed Harrow noticing her, her expression shifted into something more mischievous.

"So," drawled Gideon, in a voice that was exceedingly lecherous, "It was the booty shorts that finally broke you, huh?"

Harrow blinked slowly, considering how to best answer the underlying question. She could not explain to Gideon that her body had always felt poisonous and wrong and unsuited for human contact, not without raising more questions. She could not tell her how she feared that she might be inherently corrosive, and that she was afraid of ruining Gideon with her touch. Each time Gideon held her, or kissed her, it felt like a gift too big to hold, a debt too large to repay, but Harrow wanted so badly to try. She learned to mirror the ways that Gideon touched her, and hoped that it would be enough.

And, yeah, seeing Gideon's ass barely concealed by a bit of stretchy red fabric had broken the last of her self-restraint. Harrow knew she was selfish, through and through. She hoped that Gideon wouldn't come to regret this. She hoped against hope that the strange, gentle feeling that bloomed in her heart would survive.

Harrow closed her eyes, letting them rest, and shrugged. "I suppose… I was just stuck in my head about it."

Gideon hummed in acknowledgement, but Harrow could tell that she didn't completely believe her answer.

"If you have more questions in your follow-up survey, could you wait until later? You're spoiling this 'afterglow' I've heard so much about."

"Heard about from whom?" Gideon teased her, not expecting a real answer.

Harrow rolled onto her stomach, moving closer to Gideon, and smirked into her pillow. "From your magazines."

"My–?"

Harrow could almost hear the gears turning in Gideon's head.

"My skin mags? How did you even find those!"

"It's my understanding that hiding porn under your mattress is a fairly common thing to do."

Gideon was unusually quiet following this revelation. Harrow cracked an eye open and found her grinning from ear to ear. She opened her mouth, but Harrow cut her off.

"Customer satisfaction survey later."

Gideon closed her mouth. Her lips curved into a gentle smile and she carded her fingers through Harrow's mess of dark curls. "Can I ask you about something else?"

"You are as inexorable as the tide," sighed Harrow.

"And you're as fathomless as the sea," said Gideon. "I was wondering why you haven't written to anyone."

"What?" 

"I know you've been writing letters, but you haven't sent any."

"You wish to speak of this now?" All thoughts of sleep evaporated as annoyance took over, grounding Harrow firmly back in the world of the conscious. "I wanted to discuss tactics with you before I responded to the requests made by the Houses."

"Makes sense. But why don't you write to the Ninth?" Gideon's fingers slowly traced the bumps of Harrow's spine, impervious to her shift in mood. "That letter you got didn't come from nowhere. I'm sure there are people who want to hear from you."

"That was from my seneschal." Harrow's reply was clipped. Her shoulders stiffened. "It was not a social– she does not require–" 

Harrow bit down on the inside of her cheek, silencing herself. She couldn't account for the raw anger she sometimes felt when Gideon treated her like this; with kindness and forethought. She didn't understand how Gideon could so frequently touch her without the slightest hint of hatred or revulsion.

Sometimes, Harrow wondered what it would be like for someone to really, truly care for her– not as the Reverend Daughter, but as just Harrow– even though she knew it was foolish to think that any part of her could be considered separate from what she was at her core. Harrowhark Nonagesimus wasn't a person; she was an icon, a symbol, a chimera, a sin. She was a monster born from monsters. She was the abomination housed in the labyrinth of secrets that comprised the Ninth.

Still, even if it was just for a little while, even if she was just playing at being human, there was also a part of Harrow that ached to know what it would be like to love someone and be loved in return.

Harrow took a deep breath, held it, and when she exhaled let her anger go along with it. She shifted closer to Gideon, who readily embraced her.

"Perhaps, I will write to her," Harrow said quietly.

Gideon smiled and kissed the top of her head. They lay there for a while longer, dozing in the sunshine.

Chapter Text

The door to Harrow's office was opened from the outside, letting in a gust of cold air from the warehouse. In the periphery of her vision, Harrow could tell that Gideon was leaning in the doorway, but opted not to immediately acknowledge her. Instead, her head remained bent, eyes down and focused as she penned a perfectly round 0 at the bottom of a ledger page.

"Hey," crooned Gideon, perfectly self-assured, "You wanted to see me?"

Even if Harrow hadn't seen her, she was certain that she would recognize that voice anywhere by now. It was nothing short of embarrassing how easily Gideon could startle Harrow's heart into dropping its sheet music, making it fumble to find its rhythm again.

Harrow's fingers slipped beneath her head scarf to pull off her face mask, leaving it dangling from one ear as she blew on the ink to dry it. She took her time closing the ledger and set it neatly to one side of her desk before slowly raising her eyes.

"You're letting the heat out," said Harrow, frowning with disapproval. The row of offices on the second floor were heated, but the main part of the warehouse less so. "And the leering is entirely inappropriate for a work environment."

Gideon leered harder, her crooked smile widening at the challenge. She was wearing her black leather jacket, and Harrow hated that Gideon knew how good she looked in it. "I'll show you my spreadsheets if you show me yours, Junior Accountant Nonagesimus."

Gideon neatly dodged the pencil that Harrow threw at her face and stepped fully inside the cramped office, closing the door behind her. A pair of windows that looked into the warehouse kept the room from feeling too claustrophobic. The back wall was covered in filing cabinets, leaving just enough room for a pair of desks, with a little standing room besides. Gideon parked herself at the edge of Harrow's desk and leaned heavily on it.

Harrow had noticed that Gideon liked to lean on things when she was feeling flirtatious, as though she were collapsing under the weight of her own infatuation. She was grateful that Issa wasn't there, so no one but Gideon would know the small, secret smile that graced Harrow's lips. But, as they regarded each other with quiet affection, the corners of Gideon's mouth quirked with badly suppressed mirth.

"It's my last day, so you'd better get your final requests in." Gideon oscillated her eyebrows at an alarming speed. "Do you need help appreciating your assets?"

Harrow's smile vanished, replaced with a sharp, dark-eyed stare that she reserved entirely for Gideon. She turned off her desk lamp, so that the only light came through the warehouse windows, and she rose menacingly from her chair. Harrow put her hand on one of Gideon's knees, wrenched it to the side and stepped between her legs, never breaking eye contact.

Gideon threw a hand back on the desk to prop herself up as she was nearly unbalanced. She held Harrow's stare for an admirable amount of time, but lost when she felt the hand on her knee slide slowly up along the inside of her thigh, a thumb tracing the crease at the top of her leg. Gideon blushed scarlet and looked away, but Harrow grabbed her chin and tilted her face back towards her. Gideon went willingly and sighed as she was pulled into a kiss.

"How do you keep doing this to me?" Gideon pouted as she gently bumped her forehead into Harrow's. Her eyes were startlingly gold even in the reduced light. Harrow thought that if she ever brought her into the black halls of the Ninth, she would glow like a candle in the dark. "I'm the butch fatale in this relationship! I'm the irresistible, seductive beefcake!"

"Of course you are," agreed Harrow, her words lilting with amusement. She leaned forward, brushing her cheek over Gideon's while her fingers tugged playfully at her belt loops. The blush made Gideon's skin hot against Harrow's and she felt a surge of pride in being able to elicit such a reaction from her. Harrow buried her face in the crook of Gideon's neck and used the belt loops as an anchor, reeling herself in until they were pressed flush together. Gideon's thighs squeezed Harrow's hips.

"Careful, Griddle." Harrow kissed Gideon's jaw, just below her ear. "I'm sure you wouldn't want to start something you couldn't finish."

"Bold of you to assume that I put any forethought into anything I do." Gideon bit down on her lip, stifling a sound as Harrow began a trail of open mouthed kisses along her throat. "Harrow, the windows…"

"Everyone's downstairs," Harrow murmured, "We'll hear them if they come up."

"Wait, everyone? Is there something going on?"

Harrow ignored her in favor of putting her hands under Gideon's shirt and grasping her hips. She wanted to savor how Gideon's skin tasted after she'd been outside for a while; like sunshine and salt. Harrow never thought that she could enjoy touching another person so much, but now she couldn't stop. The depths of her greed expanded even as she sated it, but, as things were, she didn't have to stop.

It filled her with a strange possessiveness to know that Gideon would gladly allow Harrow to take as much as she wanted from her– just her, only her. That hunger burned a hole through Harrow's chest and she pulled aside the collar of Gideon's shirt and jacket to bite down hard on her upper trapezius, sinking her teeth into warm, willing flesh until her jaw ached with the effort. She was certain that anyone else would have shoved her off, but Gideon shuddered and wrapped an arm around Harrow's waist, holding her close. Harrow could feel Gideon's heart beating double-time, and hot, shaky breath on her ear.

Harrow removed her teeth from Gideon and ran her tongue over the new indentations in her skin. She kissed the bite as though to sign her work and whispered into her ear: "Good girl."

A low, hungry sound tore itself free from Gideon's chest and she grabbed onto Harrow's shoulders, kissing her fiercely. The head scarf finally slipped off, and then Gideon's trembling hands were in her hair, on her jaw and throat, moving back to her shoulders to push Harrow's cardigan off. Harrow kissed her back just as desperately, her mouth opening under Gideon's, a familiar heat sparking inside her.

They both froze at the sound of footsteps on the open metal staircase. The steps were light and evenly paced, which meant it was Issa.

They sprang apart. Harrow pulled her cardigan up and threw herself back into her chair, quickly rewrapping the scarf. Gideon straightened her shirt and lurched across the desk to turn the lamp on. She was still sitting heavily on the desk when Issa opened the door, but tried to be casual about it.

"Hello, welcome to… your office!" Gideon got up and shuffled to the side to give Issa room to pass, but the accountant remained standing in the doorway. Aside from having nearly been caught sharing an unsanctioned office grope, Gideon was always awkward and shy around the construction team. In their presence, she became a quiet, aloof caricature of herself. Gideon turned sheepishly to Harrow. "Why did you want to see me?"

"Reasons," supplied Harrow. She was often short-spoken in front of their coworkers, so this response wasn't entirely unusual.

Issa looked meaningfully at Harrow and raised a hand to tap her cheek, lifting her eyebrows ever so slightly. Harrow mirrored the action and realized that she'd lost her face mask. Gideon picked it up from the floor and handed it to her.

"If you're wrapping things up here–" Issa politely turned her attention to Gideon while Harrow composed herself– "there's something that needs your attention downstairs."

"Uh, sure." Gideon had follow-up questions, but Issa had already left, returning the way she came. Gideon waited for her to be out of earshot, then whispered to Harrow, "Do you think she noticed?"

"Yes," said Harrow, glancing at the red blemishes on Gideon's neck that were not entirely concealed by her jacket collar. She knew from experience that they would disappear in a few minutes, but it was still satisfying to see them. It made her want to mark up Gideon again and again.

"Stop looking at me like that," scolded Gideon, but Harrow could tell that she was pleased to have her attention. "I'm more than a hot piece of ass. Did you really call me in here just so you could get your grabby little hands on me?"

"Yes," said Harrow, shamelessly. "I was asked to distract you, but no one specified the method by which it should be done. So, I improvised."

"Harrow." Gideon was all at once aghast and delighted. "Did you use your feminine wiles on me?"

"Don't call it that." Harrow gave her scarf and mask a final check before rising from her desk once more. She grabbed her long, black winter coat off a hook by the door and ushered Gideon out of the room. 

"What were you sexy-distracting me for?" asked Gideon, then she frowned. "Sex-tracting? Sex-screening? That's like a smoke screen, but with sexy overtones. Oh, I've got it! Smokeshow screen."

When Gideon didn't immediately move in the direction she wanted, Harrow grabbed her hand and pulled her along. Their boots echoed on the metal walkway as she led the way towards the stairs, but Gideon stopped short.

"Wait. I did actually want to talk to you about something."

Harrow gave the main floor of the warehouse a cursory glance to make sure no one was watching them. Issa had already disappeared somewhere between the high shelves. "What is it?"

Gideon was suddenly nervous and she looked down at their joined hands, squeezing Harrow's to reassure herself. Harrow wasn't sure how she felt about being both the source of her anxiety and her source of comfort. "I was wondering if you would want to do something for our anniversary next week?"

Harrow blanked. "Anniversary?"

"You know," Gideon prompted awkwardly, but Harrow did not know. "Of our marriage?"

"Ah," said Harrow, feeling foolish. She supposed that, on some level, she must have realized that Gideon housed a heart saccharine enough to indulge in this kind of social ritual. For her, this also marked a year since she was pulled away from the Ninth House, but the reminder did not fill her with resentment and homesickness the way she anticipated it might. "What sort of thing is customary?"

"I guess… going out for a nice dinner or something? But we don't have to do that," Gideon amended quickly. "It's just, like, a very fancy date. And sometimes gifts are exchanged. But, if you don't want to–"

"Alright."

"Yeah?" Gideon's expression lit up like the sunrise.

"Yes," confirmed Harrow, sealing her fate. If it made Gideon happy, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. "Let's discuss it at home."

"Okay! Awesome!" Gideon was still grinning when she pulled down Harrow's mask to kiss her. It ended up involving more teeth than lip.

"Griddle." Harrow said her nickname like an admonishment and she surveyed the warehouse again. She didn't feel like she was being watched, but her anxiety persisted. Logically, Harrow knew it wouldn't matter if their soon-to-be former coworkers witnessed them engaging in a small amount of PDA, but she hadn't quashed the fear of being perceived as vulnerable.

"Don't 'Griddle' me, like you didn't just get way too handsy in your office." Gideon passed Harrow on the walkway, now tugging her along. "Come on, my shadowy seductress. You're gonna make us late for whatever you were smokeshow screening me for."

Harrow righted her mask and sighed through her nose, exasperated but hopelessly fond. She followed the pull of Gideon's hand in her own, and together they went down the stairs.

Gideon's pace slowed when they drew close to the loading bay for the trucks, then stopped altogether. They could hear the sounds of people speaking in low tones and loudly shushing each other. Gideon looked over her shoulder at Harrow, unsure, but Harrow put her hands on Gideon's back and shoved her with a startling amount of strength. Gideon stumbled forward, out of the shelves and into the open area of the loading bay, and discovered a small crowd of people all looking back at her.

It was everyone in their construction division; the project managers, the on-site workers, the development and fundraising committees, and the accountants. The lead project manager, Amadeus Amadeus Amadeus Amadeus Amadeus Amadeus  Amadeus Amadeus Oh Oh Oh Amadeus, stepped forward with his usual congenial smile.

"Surprise!" Amadeus whispered loudly. The people around him all echoed the cry in varying, but subdued, volumes. A few people threw handfuls of paper confetti. It was then that Gideon finally took notice of the balloons, paper streamers, and a table lined with food.

Gideon looked back over her shoulder again, searching for who they might be speaking to, but found only her wife. Harrow rolled her eyes and stepped forward, putting her hand at the small of Gideon's back to guide her towards the crowd.

"What's all this?" asked Gideon, her wide eyes moving over the people and decorations as she tried to take in everything at once.

"It's a surprise party," Amadeus said cheerily, "But we thought it would be a bad idea if we all yelled 'surprise!' at a veteran and a necromancer–"

One of the site workers in a livid yellow safety vest made a strangled noise. "The junior accountant is a zombie? I thought she was just goth."

"Shut up, Bill," chorused several of the people standing near Four Hundred Ten Billion Seven Hundred Fifty Seven Million Eight Hundred Sixty Four Thousand Five Hundred Thirty Dead Cops. Someone smacked him on the back of the head.

"So!" Amadeus clapped one of his large, meaty hands heavily on Gideon's shoulder. This usually made people's knees buckle but Gideon didn't budge, which made his grin widen. "Welcome to your going away slash promotion party!"

A radio was turned on and music began to play as everyone milled about. Gideon was immediately swept up into conversation with Amadeus and the other two project managers, Glory in Tribulations and Peanut Butter Jelly Time. She was still a little too stiff and awkward, but, as Glory recounted a story in which Gideon had rescued a cat from a drainpipe, some of the tension left her shoulders and she talked about Sausage's more recent antics.

Harrow decided that her work here was done and tried to exercise her skill of becoming one with the shadows, but Gideon discretely reached for her hand. She could have ignored it and was glad that she didn't when Gideon's sweaty palm gripped hers with an insistence that clearly meant 'don't leave me here alone.' Over the next hour, Harrow listened to coworkers she'd barely spoken to tell stories about Gideon that she hadn't heard before. There was the time that Blaze lost his key ring in a cement mixer and Gideon fished it out, the time that Darling Clementine got a gash in their arm and Gideon carried them two miles to the emergency clinic, and the time that a loan shark stalked Whosoever on her way home from work and Gideon broke his leg in three places.

"Gideon, when you first started working here, you scared the shit out of me," said Amadeus, giving her another jovial slap on the back, "But you also scared the shit out of our contractors, so work started getting done a lot faster!"

At some point, a combination of embarrassment and the chill of the warehouse brought a pink tint to Gideon's cheeks that lingered, but she looked pleased all the same. Her smile came more easily now– not quite the crooked, toothy grin that she often showed Harrow, but it was close. Gideon was finally forced to release Harrow's hand when someone presented her with a slice of cake on a paper plate.

Harrow saw how enamored Gideon was with the sugary confection and used it as her opportunity to escape. She quietly excused herself under the pretense of refilling her completely full water cup and slipped away, moving seamlessly through the crowd. Harrow disliked eating in front of other people and had not removed her face mask, but carrying the cup around prevented well-intentioned do-gooders from offering her something to drink.

Issa was also lingering by the food table, but not eating. She used a pair of tongs to rearrange a tray of tiny sandwiches that had been cut into triangles.

"Issa," said Harrow, by way of greeting.

"Nonagesimus," said Issa. Thankfully, she was also not terribly talkative and did not look up from the sandwiches, which she was separating into two very neat and evenly spaced lines. Harrow stood near her, utilizing Issa's presence as a shield against small talk from anyone else who approached them, and let her attention wander back to Gideon. 

It pleased Harrow to see Gideon surrounded by people who wanted to celebrate her. Although her wife had a tendency to shy away from social interactions and claimed not to mind being a pariah, Harrow knew that she secretly yearned for meaningful friendships. Harrow wasn't sure that she could relate to such a feeling, but she sympathized nonetheless, especially since forming friendships would only become more difficult for Gideon after she assumed the role of Commander. Despite this, Harrow was certain that as long as Gideon kept her heart open, other people would eventually open their own hearts to her in turn. It was as inexorable as the sunrise; Gideon would be loved.

But, also, this made Harrow acutely aware of the distance between the two of them. When the day came where Gideon finally realized how desirable she was– not just as a friend, but as a romantic partner– where did that leave Harrow? Their marriage was political. Their– arrangement was convenient. What would happen when Gideon decided that she wanted to be with someone who suited her better? Someone with an even temperament, who laughed at all of her jokes, and who didn't hoard human remains in their bedroom. Someone who was capable of loving Gideon the way that she deserved, instead of just fucking around and hoping that would be enough. Someone with actual tits.

Harrow had thus far been able to avoid too much scrutiny regarding her qualifications as a partner due to the unconventional circumstances under which they had been paired, but an anniversary dinner was an established milestone in conventional relationships. She had no precedent to follow. She did not understand by what metrics she would be judged, or what Gideon expected from her. Harrow had the uncomfortable realization that what she dreaded most of all was Gideon's inevitable disappointment.

For how much longer would she be permitted to cling to her? For long much longer would Gideon tolerate Harrow's claws in her?

Harrow held her cup with both hands. She drummed her fingers on it, but stopped when the sound annoyed her. She set it down and looked to Issa. "If I may, I would like to ask you a question of a personal nature."

"You may," said Issa, nonplussed. Harrow referred to all conversation topics not immediately related to their job as 'personal.'

"Are you knowledgeable about the dining establishments in this city?"

"No, I don't eat anything I haven't cooked myself. I was poisoned, once."

"I see."

Issaa clacked the tongs and set them down. She looked at Harrow now, curiously. "I didn't think you enjoyed food."

"I don't."

Issa considered this. "I would like to make a personal suggestion."

Against her better judgment, Harrow nodded her assent.

"The terms and conditions of a date should be agreeable for everyone involved. I do not think it is absolutely necessary for food to be a factor." In response to Harrow's suspicious and hostile glare, Issa continued, "This morning, Gideon Led The Soldiers asked me where she might purchase flowers. We haven't had any funerals lately, so I assume she's shopping for you."

Harrow felt her ears get hot and was grateful that they were hidden. "I thank you for your suggestion," Harrow said primly. And, "Pretend that you do not know this about me."

"Understood," confirmed Issa. Someone came and took a handful of the sandwiches, so she picked up the tongs and restarted the process of sorting the remaining ones into two, evenly spaced lines.

Eighty minutes in, Harrow was all partied out. She was tired of floundering through conversations, tired of pretending to care about other people, and tired of the mere act of being perceived. She wanted very badly to go home and pretend that she did not exist for a while. Gideon was still enjoying herself, so it was fine. Harrow just needed to notify her and then she could make her exit.

Harrow skirted a group of people clustered around a space heater, not wanting to attract attention, but she spied a crop of unruly red hair among them. As soon as their eyes met, Gideon smiled so brightly that she could have exploded a pyranometer. She immediately abandoned whatever conversation she'd been a part of and approached Harrow.

"This is a me party!" Gideon clutched Harrow's hand excitedly with both of her own. "I can't believe you did this!"

With her free hand, Harrow thumbed away a smudge of icing at the corner of Gideon's mouth. "Fortunately, I can take only minimal credit for my involvement in this garish revelry. I selected the cake and was able to veto the use of something called a 'party horn,' but I was overruled regarding the paper streamers–"

Harrow nearly bit her tongue as she was swept up in an enormous hug, her arms pinned to her sides and her feet no longer touching the ground. She froze, unsure what to do or how to react. Gideon had embraced her like this once before, but the action still startled her and sent her heart racing. It was nearly overwhelming when Gideon nuzzled her face into the crook of her neck and the smell of citrus scented shampoo flooded Harrow's nose.

"You're amazing," breathed Gideon, "I –"

Gideon cut herself off and abruptly set Harrow down. She was bright eyed and stared at her for too long with a strange intensity that Harrow didn't quite understand. Gideon cleared her throat and rubbed a hand over the back of her neck, smiling shyly. "Thank you, Harrow."

"Yes, well– you ought to be thanking Amadeus. He brought this all together."

"I did. He told me it was your idea."

Harrow fussed with her coat, smoothing away imaginary wrinkles. She realized that they had attracted a small audience from the group around the space heater and sent a glare in their direction. Everyone took the hint and averted their gaze– or pretended to– with the exception of Bill, who gave her a thumbs up and nodded encouragingly. Harrow tried to ignore them. "I am taking my leave," she said to Gideon.

"Oh, okay! Lemme just say goodbye to–"

"You should stay as long as you wish. For me, this kind of event is–" Harrow changed tactics– "I would much rather return home and ensure that Sausage receives her evening meal at the usual time."

Gideon began to protest, but Harrow did something peculiar; she lifted one of Gideon's hands and bent her head over it, lowering her mask just enough to kiss her knuckles. Gideon was struck speechless and her hand hovered in the air for a moment after Harrow released it, before she remembered herself and let it drop to her side. Someone– probably Bill– hooted approvingly.

Harrow, in a very Gideon-like move, winked at her starry eyed, slack-jawed wife. "I'll see you at home."

It was kind of a dick move; charming Gideon (and the rest of the peanut gallery) with an unexpected public display of affection so that she could leave early. Harrow decided that she would tentatively schedule some time for remorse later, after Gideon came home and wanted to give Harrow a play-by-play of the rest of the party. For now, Harrow was simply relieved to sit on the bus, stare out the window, and speak to absolutely no one.

Today was Gideon's final day at the warehouse, but Harrow would continue on for another week while Issa finished training her replacement. She considered Issa's advice, turning it over and over in her mind. If she took Gideon somewhere that they both enjoyed, wouldn't that be just spending time together like they always did? Harrow wondered if she could do something to make the occasion special for Gideon, or if performing the act of 'hanging out' on the day of the anniversary would be a sufficient commemoration. Gideon had mentioned a potential gift exchange…

Harrow pressed her forehead to the glass of the window and quietly sighed, impervious to the jostling of the bus. What a silly little problem to mull over. She used to worry about food rationing and water distribution of an entire planet, and now she fussed over cake design options. Harrow supposed that she should try to enjoy the change of pace, since she would soon have much bigger problems to contend with as the Commander's wife. Or evil advisor, whatever.

However, as Harrow exited the elevator for their floor and fished the house key out from under her winter layers, she sensed that something was amiss. Had she been back on the Ninth, Harrow might not have noticed the change in thanergy, but New Rho was a living planet, and she herself was the most thanergetic being in the city. She stopped outside the front door to her apartment and her suspicion became a certainty: there was a necromancer in her home.

The rage that had lain dormant inside her for months now flared to life, like magma breaching the cooled and hardened surface of a planet. It had always been there, burning like a molten core, waiting for the inevitable day when Harrow reached for it once again. She jammed her key into the lock and pushed the door open. When she crossed the threshold, it was as Harrowhark Nonagesimus, heir to the Ninth House; cold and proud and furious.

The necromancer was leaning on her kitchen counter. Even out of uniform, she was obviously a Cohort soldier. It was evident in the way she looked at Harrow, with disinterested familiarity, though they had never met before. And, because they always came in pairs, the cavalier closed the door behind Harrow.

The apartment was a wreck. Not because they had ransacked it, but because it had been the scene of a fight. In the living room, trapped under a toppled bookcase in a growing pool of blood, was Pash. Harrow could sense that she was still alive and, in a panic, quickly reached out for Sausage as well. She wasn't as good at feeling out the life signs of non-humans, but she could sense a cat skeleton quivering in her usual place in Gideon's bedroom; frightened, but unhurt.

"Hello, Reverend Daughter," said the necromancer.

To hear that title again, after going for so long without it, sent a lightning bolt of anxiety straight through Harrow. She curled her hands into fists, the nails biting into her skin, and glowered as though she could set her aflame by sheer force of will. "To what do I owe the displeasure of having two Cohort soldiers arrive unannounced in my home?"

"Home?" The necromancer took a cursory glance at their surroundings, amused. "That's why we're here. We would like to deliver you back to the Ninth House."

Chapter Text

Harrowhark Nonagesimus stood like a living monument, the final bastion of the legacy and pride of the Ninth House. Even without the traditional robes and skull paint that marked her as the Reverend Daughter, there was no mistaking her despair-black irises and intimidating aura. She responded to the presence of soldiers in her home with a display of bored contempt, as though they were going door-to-door hawking magazine subscriptions. Harrowhark kept her eyes trained on the necromancer. She acknowledged neither the cavalier blocking the exit behind her, nor the Edenite bleeding out in the living room.

"Reverend Daughter, I am pleased to present you with the opportunity to make a victorious return to your dark and enigmatic Ninth House." The necromancer bowed lightly. She was dressed in layers of black to mimic the Blood of Eden uniform and her blonde hair was pulled into a tight braid. "I am Captain Acrasia Bet of the Cohort and, should you accept, I can have you off-planet within the hour."

With the same enthusiasm she might use if she had instead been presented with a free bag of sand, Harrowhark said, "That is certainly a tempting offer."

Harrow knew that the Second House was in the process of disbanding the Cohort (or, perhaps, simply rebranding it as a war-recovery organization) and had disavowed the actions of their defectors. It was interesting that the Captain still claimed affiliation with the Cohort; their plan must have hinged on the assumption that Harrow would be kept politically uninformed. To them, the Reverend Daughter would be little more than a princess trapped in a tower, homesick and desperate for rescue.

"Why have you come for me now? I have long been under the impression that the Houses– and, by extension, the Cohort– cared very little for the Ninth. That is, aside from the use its heir could provide as a bargaining chip."

"Indeed. Yet, what quaint accommodations for a prison cell." Captain Bet shot a look at the refrigerator door, where Gideon had pinned up some of their collaborative drawings for display. Harrow had made anatomical sketches of the ribs and spine, which were embellished with top hats and bow ties by Gideon. "Perhaps, you will agree with me when I say that the Houses made a mistake."

So, they wanted Harrow's cooperation. That was certainly easier to deal with than the alternative of an outright assassination attempt. She needed to draw this conversation out, keep Bet talking. Harrow would stall for as long as possible and, hopefully, give Gideon time to catch up to her. The motorcycle would make the commute from the warehouse more quickly than Harrow had via bus. She wouldn't be able to overpower both soldiers by herself, but she just needed to trust that Gideon would come for her.

Harrow began to slowly walk through the apartment, idly surveying the damage as she tugged off her gloves. The cavalier blocking the door stirred, then stilled when Bet discretely shook her head. The kitchen was mostly untouched, with the exception of the dining table lying on its side. The majority of the damage was in the living room, where Pash lay prone beneath a toppled book case. Furniture had been upended, there were bullet holes in the walls, and a chunk was missing from the doorway that led into the hall. Harrow was careful not to react when she realized that the damage extended into Gideon's bedroom and did not allow herself to linger on it. Instead, she took a meandering path over to Pash, inspecting her as if she were an interesting insect that had been trampled over.

"I suppose that would depend on which mistake you are alluding to," said Harrow. She crouched next to Pash and grabbed a fistful of her blue hair, roughly lifting her head. Gideon's cousin was barely conscious and her hazy eyes struggled to focus. She tried to say something, but Harrow raised her other hand and twisted it in a complex series of motions, thanergy sparking at her fingertips. Pash cried out, her body jolting erratically, as if an electric current had gone through her. Harrow released her and Pash's head hit the floor with a thunk.

Captain Bet eyed the Reverend Daughter with renewed interest as she rose to her feet. Harrow hoped that this lack of a reaction meant her necromantic legerdemain was successful. She wanted to come across as a vengeful captive and didn't need the intruders to suspect that she had actually repaired Pash's fractured skull, dislocated shoulder, and broken leg. There was little Harrow could do for the meat but she tried her best to repair what she could, though it was difficult to maintain at a distance.

"The Houses should not have betrayed the Emperor and submitted to the demands of rebels," said Bet. "They should not have debased you by denying your birthright and whoring you to the Commander's unholy spawn."

Harrow couldn't help but feel offended by this declaration, although Gideon probably would have giggled at the word 'whoring.' She crossed her arms and circled towards the kitchen. "And this invitation has absolutely nothing to do with my ability, as a House official, to reinstate the honor you have discarded by defecting from the Cohort?"

Bet's face twisted into a snarl, her cool veneer melting away in the bonfire of her righteous fury. " We are all that is left of the true Cohort, the soldiers who keep their faith in God's will! All others are apostates. Surely the Reverend Daughter has not also turned her back on the Kindly Prince?"

Harrow smiled derisively behind her face mask. The Ninth House had always existed outside the reach of God's light. "You mean to say that this alliance of faith will benefit both parties? I have no reason to believe you."

"My comrades and I have journeyed to New Rho in order to reclaim it for the Emperor. We will cleanse this forsaken planet of the Blood cult's leadership–" (Harrow's pulse spiked at the confirmation that her worst fears were correct: they were targeting Gideon) "– and, in doing so, restore you to your rightful place on the throne of the Ninth House."

"A throne? Is that what you believe I was taken from?" Harrow said icily. It would be more correct to say that she had been exhumed from an early grave.

This was a misstep; Harrow had meant to rile the necromancer up, get her ranting, but she herself was becoming agitated. The longer Harrow beheld the visage of the person who had hurt Pash, ruined her home, and aimed to kill Gideon, the harder it was to mask her contempt. They regarded each other with rising animosity and Captain Bet got to the point: "Will you aid us in our holy crusade, Reverend Daughter?"

There was only one answer to a direct question like this: Harrow raised her hands threateningly, palms out. She said, "Eat shit, chucklefucks," and activated her bone wards.

Bet lunged at Harrow, a half-step too late. Bone shards had been embedded into the grout of the kitchen tiling and skeletal arms exploded upwards to grasp at the Captain's feet. There was bone also in the doorframe and the cavalier was having difficulty unsheathing her rapier while being grabbed by a truly unreasonable number of arms. Harrow expected that the necromancer would free herself first, but she had not anticipated this: the bones crumbling away into inert dust, their thanergy dispelled. The Captain was an adept of the Second House, and she glared scornfully at Harrow.

Well, shit. That wasn't great, but Harrow also had a few surprises up her sleeve. As Bet flicked her wrist to free the cavalier, Harrow surged forward and thrust the heel of palm upwards. The impact of her hand on the soldier's nose, along with the resulting crunch of cartilage and bone, were immensely satisfying. Bet stumbled, catching herself on the counter. A hand flew to her face, blood streaming from both nostrils.

Harrow didn't have time to admire the damage– the cavalier threw something and she barely moved in time for a high-speed object to go flying past her head. Harrow hit the wall and propelled herself off it to avoid a following swing of the rapier. The cavalier was a head taller than Harrow and she advanced like the rising tide, retrieving the dagger she'd thrown from where it was embedded in the wall.

Harrow struggled to maintain distance between the two of them, wheeling around the already much-abused couch and towards the hall. She was corralling herself into a dead end, but she couldn't let them near Pash again. (Gideon would come, she just had to wait for Gideon.) Harrow ducked into the hall and activated what remained of her ward in the door frame with the missing chunk. Skeletal arms sprang out to assist her, but the cavalier now had the aid of her necromancer and began to cut them down like a thatch of overgrown weeds.

Harrow fell back into her own bedroom, but her heart sank at the realization that her bone collection, carefully curated and imbued with thanergy over the past year, would be mostly useless to her. Still, she raised her arms and took hold of the multitude of bone chips that dangled from the ceiling. When the cavalier appeared in the doorway, splintered bone hurtled like shrapnel towards her. The shards embedded themselves into the walls and floor and the cavalier, because the necromancer protecting her could not account for the sheer breadth and depth of Harrow's obsession with osseo.

The cavalier threw her dagger, and this time it struck true. It sheathed itself in the meat of Harrow's left palm and she staggered as her arm was wrenched back by the force of it. A lightning bolt of pain shot down her arm as muscle was cleaved and tendons snapped. She screamed through clenched teeth and cradled the bloody, impaled hand to her chest, heavy and awkward.

The last of the bone chips dropped to the floor and the cavalier stepped into the room. Bet shadowed her, but they moved with renewed caution. Harrow had only managed to hold them off so far because Pash had worn them down, and because they hadn't expected the Reverend Daughter to put up a fight. They were half-right in their assumption that the Ninth House did not produce fighters; their specialty was breeding monsters.

Harrow swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat and put her back against the far wall, against the mural of the desert sunset. Blood sweat beaded on her forehead as she raised every construct in that room. She didn't waste energy assembling new ones, there were plenty of skeletons crawling out from under the bed and emerging from the closet where they had been stashed. There wasn't much space for them to move, but they needed only to cluster at the door and impede their opponents.

Having to constantly dispel thanergy was wearing on the Captain. She couldn't disable all the constructs at once, but her focus was on protecting the cavalier as she hacked and slashed her way through. The cavalier caught sight of Harrow's black winter coat and headscarf in the mob, standing out like a fly in a sugar bowl. She charged at it, yanked hard on the collar, and– revealed a skeleton playing dress-up.

Harrow burst through the tangle of bones in the opening that the cavalier had left. There was a construct wrapped around her injured left arm– hurriedly fashioned from a warped femur, extending past her hand to protect her clenched fist– and she used its bulk to slug Bet in the solar plexus. Harrow knocked her onto the floor and sat heavily on her chest, clutching the dagger in her other hand. The blade was red with her own blood and she brought it down to make a sheath of one of those wide, alarmed eyes.

Two-hundred and counting.

Harrow's arm trembled from the impact as the dagger struck. Her blood pounded in her ears and she stared, bewildered, at what she saw; the knife had bitten into the floor by the necromancer's head. Harrow had managed to cut through some ear cartilage and hair, but that was nothing. She'd missed. How the fuck had she missed?

Harrow's chest flared with pain and the world spun off its axis. It took her a moment too long to realize that the cavalier had kicked her off the necromancer. She was dizzy and short of breath, but rolled onto her side and tried to push the floor away. A boot pressed down hard on her neck, heedless of her struggling, and pinned her to the floor. She heard the Captain groan as she got to her feet. The last of the constructs fell to Second House magic, including the one protecting Harrow's hand.

The point of a rapier came very close to Harrow's eye and she made herself still. She had no more bones to call upon and she had reached the limit of the physical capability that Gideon had tried so painstakingly to improve. Her vision narrowed to the sword and she watched as it cut away her face mask, drawing a red line across her cheek. The cold steel came to rest at the delicate skin beneath her jaw.

"No," said Bet, her voice rough. "Live bait works best."

Gideon.

Harrow forgot the sword and she forgot her pain. She snarled and thrashed like an animal in a trap, but the boot pushed down and made it hard to breathe. Bet had a turn at kicking her in the ribs. Lights sparked in Harrow's vision as pain and nausea swept through her and she instinctively tried to curl in on herself. Her chest spasmed, frantic from both the lack of oxygen and the wrongness of cracked ribs. Her arms were wrenched behind her– her left hand now so abused that even the smallest sensation was fresh agony – and she felt metal cuffs bind her wrists. Harrow's thoughts spun and, in a daze, she noticed one of Sausage's missing toys, hidden under her bed among the bone dust. It was a plush mimicry of some prey animal and part of the stitching was torn open.

Captain Bet entered her line of sight. She crouched down to seize a fistful of Harrow's black curls. Blood matted the blonde hair where Harrow had sliced into her ear. "Where is the Reaper?"

Using context clues, Harrow determined that they were referring to Gideon. She supposed 'Reaper' was alright, as far as scary battlefield nicknames went. When Harrow didn't answer, Bet yanked at her scalp, lifting her head from the floor. The boot was still on Harrow's throat and she struggled to speak, biting out each word. "Up. Your. Ass."

"Everyone is in place," said the cavalier. She had a low, concerned voice. "We shouldn't prolong this."

Bet sighed and raised her free hand towards the cavalier, who gave her something. She kept a firm grip on Harrow's hair as the boot lifted, and Harrow– gasping pitifully for air despite feeling like knives were slotted between her ribs– became aware of what was happening only when the collar clicked into place.

Harrow had never willingly been the cause of someone's death. Perhaps it was guilt regarding the nature of her own existence that had prevented her from using a lethal attack. But now, she was confronted with the reality of her inability to do what needed to be done. Because she had failed to kill the soldiers, because she had foolishly thought to rely on someone else to fix her problems, she had passed that danger onto Gideon.

As Harrow heard the telltale whirr of the collar's mechanism activating, a strange calm settled over her. She turned inward, leaving behind the aches and injuries of her meat as she was granted a single-minded clarity; Gideon would not be allowed to die for her. When the cavalier struck Harrow's skull with the end of her sword, she was thinking about how they'd just been together in her office; Gideon smiling at her in the half-dark, yellow eyes as soft and inviting as candlelight.

The first thing that Harrow noticed was the wind. The second was the pain. She came back to herself slowly, like a bubble struggling to rise through muck. Her head throbbed and her fractured ribs ached with each shallow breath. The cold concrete beneath her and the chill brought by the wind were both blessings, numbing the hurt and bringing her closer to consciousness. No matter how Gideon complained about the winters on New Rho, they were perfectly tepid in comparison to the catacombs of the Ninth House. 

Someone was speaking, or arguing. Their words were sharp with indignation, cutting through the static of the wind. "You're not listening to me! Our intel was wrong."

"The only error was in your judgment. You made an assumption." This was the inflexible tone of that fucking Second necro. She raised her voice as the wind grew louder, and Harrow realized that she was listening to the whirr of helicopter blades. The argument continued, the two of them shouting to be heard over the noise. Harrow felt the tremble in the ground when the machine touched down, the wind whipping her hair and clothes around.

"It's not only soldiers in the building. There are families. Children –"

"– Who are promised to the Blood of Eden, in the same way that we were born to serve the holy empire of the King Undying. Do you think they would hesitate to kill the little siblings you've left at home?"

One of Harrow's eyes was crusted shut with blood, so she carefully cracked open the other and saw a collection of boots. There were four people standing near where she lay, but they weren't turned towards her. Looking past them, Harrow could see the edge of the roof and other buildings beyond that. She slowly shifted her head for a better view, her body protesting the movement as her cheek scraped against the concrete. It was difficult to focus on subtlety when nearly every inch of her body was ringing with pain.

There were two necromancer-cavalier pairs out on the roof with her. The assholes who had, apparently, brought her up to the top of the building were standing in opposition to a couple of junior conspirators. Harrow recognized the younger faces, but she couldn't remember from where. She focused on what she did know; One, it was nearing sunset so she hadn't been unconscious for very long. Two, there would be a five second delay between activation and detonation. Three, the ideal time to strike would be when they were all inside the helicopter.

"You dishonor the Cohort!" The younger necromancer shouted, "And you dishonor God by–"

"Enough!" Captain Bet waved a hand in agitation, as though to discourage a fly that had ventured too close. "You claim that you will bring glory to the Emperor, but you would consider your own will to be more holy than His."

"What are you idiots doing!" Someone yelled from outside of Harrow's vision. They must have come from the helicopter, but no one acknowledged them.

"My refusal to be a child murderer should not be a point of contention! My cavalier and I won't stand for this."

"What do you stand for, Tettares?" The bitch necromancer flicked her wrist, and her cavalier unsheathed her rapier. "Because right now, you're standing in my way."

Tettares would not be moved. His cavalier had also drawn her sword and was nearly vibrating out of her skin in anticipation of a fight. "We're going back. We'll disarm the bombs."

The person who had exited the helicopter came closer to the arguing group. He looked at Harrow with surprise, and she looked at him. "Is the Reverend Daughter meant to –"

Harrow quickly revised her plan and decided that having them all within a meter radius was close enough. With the same brutal efficiency that she had used on Pash, Harrow cried out as she healed her broken ribs and pushed a spur of bone out from her wrist, cutting through her skin and breaking one of the handcuffs.

Everyone turned to face her as the collar correctly detected necromancy and began to beep, but Harrow had already moved onto phase two of her plan; she pushed hard off the ground– her muscles burning since she couldn't immediately fix the damage done to them– and lunged at the Second House. The cavalier stepped forward to protect her Captain and Harrow stabbed the bone spike into the cavalier's sword hand, snapping it off her own wrist. The usual skill and grace she put into her necromancy were absent, and it was rage that fueled the necessary theorems.

The second beep of the collar was drowned out by the cavalier's panicked cry as her hand exploded into a mass of barnacled osseous matter. She dropped her sword, unable to hold onto it as her hand shed flesh and blood to make way for the cancerous growth.

The collar beeped for a third time as Captain Bet's eyes widened in horror. The cavalier fumbled for her dagger, placing the blade at her own wrist as Bet tried to wrench it away. The Fourth House heir stared in shock and had to be forced backwards by his cavalier, who seemed to be the only person cognizant of the Reverend Daughter's status as a walking bomb.

Harrow ignored them and lurched towards the pilot. His partner was emerging from the aircraft, the helicopter blades slowing, and he was shouting something. Harrow couldn't hear him over the fourth beep and the familiar prayer that tumbled from her own lips: "I pray the tomb is shut forever."

This seemed to unnerve the pilot more than anything else Harrow had done and he recoiled when she reached for him. However, he had a necromancer's slight build and was unprepared for Harrow to grab the front of his shirt and headbutt him. She dragged him towards the Second. 

The other pilot– the cavalier to the necro that Harrow was currently manhandling– had reached them. He backhanded her, hard, and Harrow collapsed in time for the last beep to sound.

Harrow exhaled and closed her one good eye. She hoped that they would all be in the blast zone. She was so, so tired.

The collar whirred for a final time and there was a deafening BANG, accompanied by a burst of thanergy. Then, a ringing silence.

Harrow, amazed and annoyed that this sound originated from outside her skull rather than from within, ran her trembling fingers over the still-intact collar. She scrubbed furiously at the dried blood on her face and opened both eyes.

The cavalier who'd just struck Harrow was sprawled out in a sad heap next to her. A growing halo of blood crowned his head and there was a messy, gorey hole exposing the inside of his face. Beneath the ringing in Harrow's ears, she could make out his necromancer crying, brokenly, "No, no… Chaerecrates, no…!"

The Second cavalier moved in time for another BANG, shielding Captain Bet with her bulk, and the concrete exploded where they'd just been standing. She was glaring at something, and Harrow followed her sightline. Her heart was in her throat before she'd even finished turning her head towards the far end of the roof.

Gideon Led The Soldiers descended from her perch on top of the stairwell access. She moved like one of the desert cats closing in on their prey, all taut muscle and murderous intent. Her hair glowed orange in the light of the sunset and her jaw was clenched as she reloaded the shotgun with fluid, practiced motions.

Gideon's eyes were hidden behind the tint of sunglasses. She must have seen the Fourth pair, but did not incline her head in their direction and strode purposefully past them. Tettares had attached himself to his cavalier's sword arm and was anchoring her to the spot. His stricken expression was proof of something that Harrow had always known but lacked the context to properly comprehend; Gideon was the tool that the late Commander had used to end the war.

She was a living weapon. A bomb wearing the shape of a person. Her existence was considered monstrous by both the Nine Houses and the Blood of Eden. But goddamn, she looked good in that leather jacket.

"Honey-hark," said Gideon, calling out to Harrow as if no one else were there. "You didn't tell me there was an afterparty."

If Harrow lived through this, she would have a word with Gideon about that nickname.

The Second cavalier, furious and bloody, picked up her fallen rapier with her good hand. The Captain, for better or worse, had confiscated the dagger and dissuaded her from cutting off the bad one. So, the cavalier kept her hastily bandaged arm turned away from Gideon as she marched forward to meet her, and it almost looked like she was carrying a calcified rock that she had picked up at the beach.

There was a clang of metal on metal as Gideon parried the rapier with the barrel of her shotgun. Despite her size and injury, the cavalier was light on her feet and she struck again and again, constantly moving. She appeared to have the offensive advantage, but Gideon could not be forced back. When Gideon blocked a strike, using her gun to direct the sword elsewhere, it was with a lack of effort that bordered on leisurely. She dodged with an efficiency of movement, so that the blade consistently missed her by centimeters.

Finally, the cavalier lunged too far forward as she thrust the point of the rapier at Gideon's face. Gideon flicked the gun barrel in a circular motion around the blade and forced it down, pulling the trigger as the muzzle lowered. The thing about shotguns, Harrow was learning, was that they discharged several projectiles at once. The cavalier staggered as her knee burst in a red spray of blood and bone.

Before the cav could finish dropping, Gideon pointed the gun past her at Captain Bet. She fired a second time, hitting her shoulder and making her body jerk from the impact. Bet was forced several steps back and the top of one shoulder was reduced to uneven wet flesh, but she didn't make a sound. Instead, her face was twisted with fury and concentration. She raised her hand, clenched her fist, and Gideon stumbled.

Harrow had never seen thalergy absorption used before, but she knew it was painful. She growled as she attempted to push herself onto her feet, but her arms trembled and her left hand gave out entirely. The Second cavalier was doing the same and, as Harrow watched with increasing anxiety, her knee began to knit itself together and bore her weight when she stood.

Blue flames shot across the roof at the Captain and she threw up her arms to protect herself as they exploded. The Fourth cavalier sped past Gideon and hit the Second cav like a car crash, knocking her back and nearly sending her onto her ass. Her steps weren't as quick, but she was built like a brick house and wielded a short sword instead of the expected rapier. Her attacks were relentless and Tettares followed in her wake, wreathed in ethereal blue fire. He nodded uneasily at Gideon as he passed, launching flame after flame at the Second.

Satisfied that the cavalier was occupied, Gideon charged at the Captain. Bet put her hands up threateningly, and Gideon interrupted her necromancy by hurling the entire shotgun at her. She managed to sidestep the gun, but for nothing; Gideon had reached her. Gideon grabbed her by the neck, lifted her an inch off the ground, and slammed her back down into the concrete. The Captain made a noise like an overtaxed air conditioning unit and her hands clawed uselessly at Gideon's as her windpipe was squeezed.

A cry was startled out of Harrow as someone grabbed her by the collar and lifted it, forcing her up onto her knees. It was the pilot-necromancer, no longer weeping, but his ruddy face was tear streaked and woeful. Gideon understood the threat and loosened her grip on the Captain's throat, but kept her pinned. Beneath her, Bet made a sound that was the bastard child of a laugh and a wheeze.

"I would much rather leave with the Reverend Daughter alive," said Bet, with more bravado than she had any right to, "but that's really up to you, Reaper."

"If it were up to me, I'd be taking your skin off with a vegetable peeler right now," said Gideon.

"Acrasia," said the pilot, unexpectedly. He sounded weary. "It's over."

There was an awkward pause between all parties. Bet seemed to intuit that they were having two different conversations and her eyes narrowed. "Octim," she said, warningly.

Harrow looked at Gideon and wished that she could see her eyes. With the sunglasses on, it was hard to read anything besides anger on her face. She couldn't even tell if Gideon was looking at her or at Octim. Maybe she was ashamed that Harrow had allowed herself to become a hostage. Harrow could not speak with the collar pressing on her throat, but she tried– desperately, through sheer force of will– to psychically beam her intentions to Gideon: Kill her and live! You have to live! Let me die!

Octim shook his head despondently. "Without Chaerecrates, this is all…"

"Make his death mean something!" Bet rasped before Gideon decided that was enough and pressed down on her throat.

Octim laughed weakly, and Harrow felt a tug underneath her skin. It was a strange, leeching sensation that seemed to bypass her meat and pulled directly at her nervous system. It had started out as a tingle but quickly became more akin to what Harrow imagined being pulled apart with hooks would feel like. There was a haze in the air that muted the colors around them as it made everything colder and sharper.

When Harrow realized what was happening, what the fresh pain setting every nerve alight meant, she struggled against the necromancer's hold on her. The effects extended beyond her and she saw Gideon and the Captain react as well. Bet was pale and shouting, but her words were little more than noise, just increasingly meaningless percussion on Harrow's ear drums as her brain began to feel foggy and detached. Octim wasn't just siphoning from Harrow, he was pulling from everyone around him.

The edges of Harrow's vision darkened and she couldn't tell if it was from having her soul scraped out, being strangled, or perhaps the concussion she was certain she had. She couldn't focus and her gaze dropped to the corpse of the Eighth cavalier lying nearby. There was a pale light emanating from within its chest and the heavy limbs began to twitch and jolt. The wet, red hole in its face flexed all at once, as though breathing.

"Harrow!"

Gideon's voice was a light cutting through the darkness. She was pale and gray and grappling with Bet, but still had the upper hand. She threw a handful of something small into the air and Harrow knew what it was even though she couldn't properly see it: bone.

The stark white shards never touched the ground. It happened in slow motion; Harrow took hold of them mid-arc and manipulated them as easily as breathing. She expanded each one to the length of her palm, and shot them into the necromancer.

The siphoning stopped. There was the thanergetic bloom of fresh death and the hand on Harrow's collar fell away, followed by the thud of another body hitting the concrete. With nothing to hold her up, Harrow slumped forward. She was gently caught and a warm leather jacket was wrapped around her shoulders. Harrow had forgotten how cold she was. The world tilted one final time, and she found herself lying down with her head pillowed on Gideon's thigh. It was remarkably quiet, the silence broken only by the sound of Gideon's shaky breathing.

Above her, Gideon had removed the sunglasses and her eyes were as strikingly gold as ever. The sun had nearly finished crossing the horizon and her handsome face– gorgeous even when battered and bloodied– was framed with vibrant red and violet hues. She looked over Harrow with a worried frown as she carefully removed the collar with the key she had looted off the Captain. "Because I'm feeling generous, I'm going to forgive you for hiding bones in my pockets."

"It was a bit more involved than just 'hiding' them," croaked Harrow, who wanted credit where credit was due: she had sewn bone chips into the lining of her wife's clothes. Gideon brushed her fingers over the marks the collar had left on her throat, and Harrow closed her eyes and shivered. "Was it always an empty threat?"

"No. I removed the explosive component the first time you took it off," said Gideon. She broke off the handcuffs that still dangled from one of Harrow's wrists. She touched each of Harrow's fingers, as though to reassure herself of their presence. Gideon said, very softly, "I couldn't risk losing you."

Harrow remembered, and her eyes snapped open. "Gideon, there are explosives in the building."

"I know, don't worry. Apparently, they gave Pash an evil monologue while they were beating the shit out of her. Good job patching her up, by the way." Gideon smoothed a hand over Harrow's hair. "We Suffer will have disarmed the bombs, or we'd probably be dead right now."

"Oh. Well, that's nice."

Harrow turned her head and made herself look at the body of the necromancer known only to her as Octim. She couldn't see the damage too well from this angle, but she could tell where she'd embedded the bones that had ended his life; two in the heart, two through a cheek, and one in his eye. Due to her own body's current condition, she couldn't immediately say that it felt good to have traded her life for his. She wondered, when he tried to siphon her, if her soul felt like a normal one or if he had sensed the presence of the two hundred that made her. Had he known, in his final moments, that Harrow was exactly the kind of abomination that the other Houses had always feared the Ninth to be?

But, because Harrow had killed him, Gideon was alive. And because Gideon had killed Acrasia Bet– Harrow hadn't seen it happen, but she'd felt the change in thanergy at the same time Octim died– they could both share this moment where no one was getting exploded or abducted or thrown off a roof. Maybe Harrow could save her moral crisis for after she was done feeling like absolute shit. Footsteps approached them and Gideon tensed as the Fourth pair made themselves known. 

"Ah, the convenient turncoats," said Gideon.

Tettares kept a respectable distance from Gideon. His cavalier had sheathed her sword but rested a hand on it. "Isaac Tettares and my cavalier, Jeannemary Chatur."

"Yeah, yeah. You look like your dad. That cav is handled?"

"Unconscious and restrained," confirmed Chatur.

Gideon nodded, but continued to eye them suspiciously. "And neither of you touched a hair on the head of my beautiful wife?"

"Griddle–"

"No! Absolutely not," insisted Tettares. His face flushed, but Chatur's mouth twitched with a smile. "We were told that the Captain– that Bet was just going to talk to her."

"We were told a lot of things," Chatur added quietly. "We have medical supplies in the helicopter. You're bleeding quite a lot."

Harrow realized that this last part was directed not at her, but at Gideon. "Gideon?"

Gideon smiled and stroked Harrow's hair again. Her breathing, which Harrow had assumed to be shaky with some combination of exertion and emotion, sounded worse. "Don't worry about it. The cleanup crew will be here soon. I'm just… I think I'll lie down for a bit. Until they get here." Gideon barely managed to catch herself as she swooned, turning it into a controlled fall, and she lay back on the concrete.

The hard won peace that Harrow had fought so dearly for was gone, replaced in an instant by fear.  Her head was still throbbing and dizzy, the rest of her body little more than a vehicle for her pain, but Harrow was up in a heartbeat. She called Gideon's name again and again, with increasing urgency. She summoned the last of her strength and turned Gideon onto her side, revealing a shirt soaked through with blood. There were a series of stab wounds on the left side of her back, where the blade of a dagger would have passed between her ribs and into her lung.

Chapter Text

The first thing Gideon noticed was the antiseptic smell. Her nose wrinkled with displeasure and she knew before opening her eyes that she would find herself in a hospital bed. She was lying in an unadorned white room without any windows. The lights were turned low and an IV was hooked up to her right arm. A chunky identification tag encircled her wrist, where someone had carefully lettered her full name: Gideon Led The Soldiers Down To The Water Kaua E Mate Wheke Mate Ururoa Gold Teeth Gray Goose Trippin' In The Bathroom Bloodstains Ball Gowns Trashin' The Hotel Room.

Gideon followed the transparent tube in her arm up to the bag dangling over her head. It was just saline, no lipids or blood, so she must not be too bad off. No oxygen or heart monitor either. She wriggled her fingers and toes and could feel all of them. Good.

A small noise alerted Gideon to the presence of another person in the room. That was unusual. Co-mom-der Wake preferred to post soldiers outside the door, not leave them in the room with her while she was vulnerable. Someone was slumped in a chair next to the bed, arms crossed over their chest, eyes closed. Blue hair.

Pash.

Gideon's memories flooded back all at once.

Pash bleeding out, home trashed, Harrow missing.

Gideon sat up too quickly and nearly had to lie down again. She reached over and squeezed Pash's shoulder, earning her hand a smack.

Pash grunted and pushed herself up in the chair, blinking sleep out of her eyes as she scowled at Gideon. "Welcome back. How's hell this time of year?"

"Balmy." Gideon's voice was rusty and she cleared her throat. "Is Harrow –?"

"She's fine."

"How long have I been out?"

"Three years." Pash regarded her somberly for maybe a half second before snorting with laughter. "You should see your face!"

"Our Lady of the Passion."

"Yeesh, don't full-name me over this." Pash shifted uncomfortably and Gideon realized that she was seated in a wheelchair. "You've been out for less than a week."

Gideon sighed and let herself fall back onto the mattress. She remembered getting her gun and going up to the roof, but the rest was hazy. "What happened?"

"You fucked up, that's what happened. Absolutely sloppy work!"

Gideon stared at the ceiling. "You sound like mom."

"There were six of them and you killed, what, two? And you got yourself stabbed full of holes!"

"Yeah, well. I was distracted. Mom never trained me for hostage situations in which the survival of the hostage was considered essential."

"Don't pull the 'traumatized by my dead mother' card," Pash said scornfully, "you were trying to leave them alive. Your little wifey won't be around to praise your mercy if she's dead. And you're lucky that the pair of idiots you spared are even dumber than you."

Gideon doubled down. "Quit talking like my problematic dead mother.” She finally looked away from the ceiling to glare tiredly at Pash. “Where is Harrow?"

"Around. She's playing doctor."

"Really?"

"Really. 'Zombie doctor' is a joke so bad that not even you would come up with it. Did you know that blood is made inside your bones? I sure fucking didn't! Bodies are bullshit."

"Harrow kept me from bleeding out,” realized Gideon. She put a hand over her ribs where the knife had gone in and felt the crinkle of a paper medical gown.

"I mean, you did bleed out. That was very much a thing that happened. But that crazy nun saved your ass." Pash sighed, sounding just as tired as Gideon. "While we were dealing with that shit at the towers, another group attacked the space elevator. They tried to take a ship. We won, but a lot of people got hurt. Nonagesimus has been helping. Her bedside manner sucks balls, but she's better than nothing. She fixed my bones, but the muscles are still fucked up."

“Huh.” A curious little smile made its way onto Gideon's face. Pash scowled at it.

"What?"

"I don't think I've heard you say her name before."

"Piss off." Pash flicked the clear IV tube. "You should've told her that you can handle a few extra deaths. Been a while since I've heard someone scream like that."

"I… was hoping it wouldn't come up."

"Hoping it wouldn't – She scratched the medic who tried to pull her off you. They had to take her down with a tranq dart before anyone could get close."

"Pash, if I didn't know better, I'd say you sound proud of my little wifey."

Pash huffed and started to slouch in the wheelchair. She straightened when Gideon made a mess by pulling the IV needle out of her arm. "Stop that! The fuck is wrong with you?"

"I need to see her." Gideon threw back the bedsheets and swung her legs out of bed. She was unsteady on her feet and Pash shoved her hard enough that she had to sit back down.

"I'll get her, asshole. Stay here."

"I'm fine."

"You don't even know where she is, numb-nuts."

Gideon was forced to admit that this was true and reluctantly got back into bed. She scratched at the already dried blood on her arm as she watched Pash wheel herself over to the door, punching a button on the wall to open it. Bright light from the hallway briefly flooded the room and Gideon could hear the susurrus of people who were speaking and moving about as quietly as possible. It confirmed that she was in a medical facility instead of a military compound, which was reassuring.

It wasn't very long until Gideon heard a new sound; the rapid thudding of someone running down the hall. The footsteps stopped outside her closed door and there was a substantial pause before it was opened.

Harrow stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. Even in the dim light, Gideon could make out the exhausted circles that ringed her eyes, the only part of her face that was visible beneath a black headscarf and paper medical mask. Her appearance was overall very sad and disheveled, and she was also wearing a comically large white laboratory coat. The sleeves had to be rolled several times to bring them above Harrow's wrists, but the name tag pinned to the chest clearly read ‘Nonagesimus.’ Gideon cracked a smile.

"White isn't really your color," said Gideon.

"No," Harrow agreed quietly. She remained standing by the door and Gideon’s skin itched with the need to hold her.

"Harrow, come here. Please?"

"You almost died," said Harrow. Her black eyes were as wet as ink. "You did die. There were lacerations in your lungs and heart.”

“I got better.” Gideon thought that her joke was extremely on-brand, but Harrow's expression implied that she was considering the benefits of putting her back in the grave. Gideon said, very gently, "I know you've been going through it for a week, but this wasn't your fault.”

A tremor went through Harrow. She cautiously approached the bed, unclenching her fists. The left hand was bandaged and she glanced down at it. "I should wash up."

"Nope.” Gideon leaned forward to grab Harrow's wrist and reeled her in, pulling her onto the bed.

"Let me take off my shoes,” protested Harrow. She nearly lost her balance and braced her hands on Gideon’s shoulders.

"Denied." Gideon fell back with her arms wrapped around Harrow's waist, heedless of the small, startled sound she made when they hit the mattress.

“You removed the IV?!"

“Maybe.”

“Griddle.”

“I'm totally fine, I promise.”

“Gideon–”

“Shh.”

It was such a relief to hold her. Gideon hadn't realized how cold she was until she felt the heat of Harrow's body– she was always so, so warm. She shuffled around until she could press her ear to Harrow's chest and listened to her heartbeat. It was thumping too fast and too hard, making her chest quake.

Gideon closed her eyes and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the familiar smell of bone dust and salt. She felt Harrow shift and then hands were in her hair, trembling and combing through a week's worth of bedhead. Harrow's breathing changed, softly stuttering, and her nose made a wet sound.

"It's okay. I'm okay." Gideon rubbed her hands over Harrow's back, fingers pressing so that she could feel the bumps of her vertebrae and ribs through her clothing. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"How dare you apologize to me," snapped Harrow, but her voice quavered and Gideon smiled.

"I'm so glad you're okay. When I got home and you weren't there… I don't think I've ever been so scared in all my life."

“I suspect that's because you have brain damage,” sniffled Harrow.

They lay like that for a while, until Harrow's breathing evened out. Gideon listened as her heartbeat slowed and she was nearly lulled back to sleep by the rhythmic thumping and by the sensation of fingers moving deftly along her scalp. One of those hands left her hair and there was the sound of Harrow blowing her nose.

“Harrow,” said Gideon, “sable-eyed wraith of my heart. Did you just blow your nose inside your mask?”

Harrow's silence was enough of an answer on its own, but then she muttered, “As you mentioned, I’ve had a trying week.”

“Gross!”

Gideon laughed– fuck, it felt good to laugh– and she unwound her arms from Harrow so that they could lay facing each other on the cramped hospital bed. She grimaced excessively as she removed the paper mask, nearly soaked through with snot and tears, and tossed it somewhere over her shoulder. Harrow pulled off the scarf and dried her face on it, then it was Gideon’s turn to card her fingers through black hair. She ran her hands over her head and down to the back of her neck, dragging Harrow into a kiss.

Harrow's eyes fluttered shut and she sighed through her nose. She reached for Gideon, but the paper gown crinkled under her hands and startled her. "I should get back to work."

With her neck uncovered, the healing bruises on Harrow's throat were visible. Gideon made an incorrect buzzer sound. "Let's take a nap."

"You just had a nap," said Harrow. But she opened her arms when Gideon wriggled closer, kissing her again before tucking the mess of unruly red hair beneath her chin.

“Death-coma is different from napping,” Gideon mumbled into Harrow's shirt.

“Alright, fine. But I'm going to check your vitals.”

“Yessir, Doctor Bones, sir.”

Gideon tensed out of habit when she felt the subtle shift in thanergy, but Harrow's magic was familiar and she allowed herself to relax. She drifted off to the tapping of Harrow's fingers, moving in time with her pulse. Gideon smiled, warm and content with the knowledge that she would still be there when she woke up.

—

Gideon dreamed that she was standing in the kitchen of their apartment, drying her hands on a dishcloth. She looked into the living room and could see a dark figure sitting curled on one end of the couch. Harrow was dressed in her Ninth House robes and perfectly applied skull paint, bent over a notebook in her lap as she scribbled furiously.

Gideon smiled at the memory and allowed it to play out. This was a few months into their marriage, before Harrow started working at the warehouse. She sat down next to her, draping one arm along the back of the couch.

Gideon looked at the notebook and saw that Harrow was planning out one of her paintings; dark cavernous halls and figures with blurry, indistinct faces that resembled skulls. She hummed thoughtfully. “You know what I think?”

“I was not aware that you were capable of complex thought.” Harrow did not look up from her work. The ink pen scratched over the flimsy and made bold, decisive lines.

“I think you don't draw the faces because you can't. I bet they all come out wonky.”

Harrow's pen stopped. She moved on the couch, turning her body so that she was curled at a different angle and Gideon could no longer see the drawing. She flipped to a new page and began anew.

Gideon picked up a magazine from the coffee table and flipped through it. She didn't remember what it was, so the dream filled it with a bizarre collage of motorcycles, construction equipment, and scantily clad women. Harrow caught her attention again when she ripped the new page from her notebook and presented it smugly to Gideon.

“You may now, as the colloquialism goes, suck on these fat nuts.”

Gideon burst out laughing. “Where did you learn that?” She looked down at the drawing in her hands and was immediately made speechless.

It was a sketch of Gideon from the shoulders up. She had seen photos of herself before, but she hadn't ever liked them. This was different. Harrow had drawn her with a wide, toothy grin and bedhead. Gideon looked entirely like herself.

“Wow, that's really good,” said Commander Wake, her words crackling as they filtered through a voice changer. “It's too bad you're a fucking wizard.”

Harrow screamed as Wake grabbed her by the throat and plunged a dagger into her chest. She yanked it out with a sick, wet sound and stabbed her again and again and–

Gideon startled awake with fear gripping her heart. She bolted upright in bed and found herself in a dark and unfamiliar room. She couldn't breathe. The air was too thin, her lungs couldn't get enough. There was a ringing sound that seemed to come from everywhere all at once.

Gideon looked around wildly, searching for anything that could help her. She saw the shadows of an armchair, desk, table, open suitcase on top– hotel room.

She flinched when someone stirred in the bed next to her. Bony shoulders, inky black hair.

Harrow, asleep.

Fuck, she was having a panic attack. Too bad knowing this didn't make it easier to think. Gideon could tell she was breathing too fast, but she couldn't get enough air. Her chest hurt. Was she going to throw up?

Would she always be one moment away from ruining everything? Would she always be a huge fuck-up?

No air.

Somewhere under the noise, Gideon heard her name. A light came on. A hand cradled her chin and gently turned her face.

Harrow, haloed by the lamplight. She was saying something. “Something something with me.”

Harrow took Gideon’s hand and pressed the palm to her chest, over the diaphragm. She inhaled deeply, and Gideon felt the movement of her ribs. Harrow held the breath, and slowly let it out.

Gideon understood. She fought to match her, forcing her breathing to slow. Her lungs were burning and her vision swam. She scrunched her eyes shut and tried to focus on the feeling of Harrow's chest under her hand. She was okay, she was safe, Harrow was safe. Inhale, hold, and then exhale, hold.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

The ringing faded. Gideon became aware that she was shivering and made herself stop. After a few more controlled breaths, she was able to evenly meet Harrow's concerned frown.

“Sorry,” croaked Gideon. Her throat was dry and she coughed. The occasional tremor still shook her hands. “Didn't mean to wake you. Thought I could ride it out.”

“Well, that's stupid.” Harrow squeezed Gideon’s hand before releasing it and got out of bed. She was wearing a large tshirt (printed with the text ‘Available for Curbside Pickup’) and Gideon’s gaze lingered on her bare legs as she walked into the bathroom.

Sausage had been sleeping at Harrow's feet, but now she rose and stretched. The little brown tabby padded over to Gideon and butted her head into her arm until the human obliged her by scratching her cheeks. There was the sound of a faucet and Harrow returned a moment later with a glass of water. Affection swelled in Gideon’s chest and she nodded her thanks as she accepted the glass, afraid to put words to what she was feeling. It was a small gesture, but it meant so much.

“Next time, wake me,” said Harrow, sitting against the headboard. Upon her return, Sausage vacated the bed in order to attend to her feline duties of checking her food bowl for kibble and drinking water in the most inconvenient way possible.

A glance at the clock on the nightstand told Gideon that it was nearly sunrise, so Harrow wouldn't be going back to sleep. Personally, she was still on the fence. It sucked to start the day already worn out, but she probably wouldn't be able to sleep for a while. The cool water refreshed Gideon's parched throat and she took her time sipping it.

Harrow's jaw moved in a way that told Gideon she was chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I've had panic attacks before, but it's been a while.” Gideon had hoped to keep them on the list of things that she didn't have to tell Harrow about, but here they were. She smiled ruefully. “It's always embarrassing when it happens in front of someone. How did you know what to do?”

“The person I knew who died last year. He used to help me with mine.” Harrow took the empty glass from Gideon and replaced it with her hand. She'd become a lot more touchy in the month since the Cohort attack. “When did you start having them?”

“After mom died.” Gideon scooted backwards until she was also sitting against the headboard, pressing herself close to Harrow. “It’d be easier if I hated her. Anyway, I was able to hide the panic attacks until I started living with Pash. Surprisingly, she was never a dick about it.”

Gideon wondered how much of that she had to thank Aim for. The doctor had certainly had a reproving influence on Pash, even if Gideon didn't understand the whole of it.

"She protected me, after you were hurt,” said Harrow. “Some of the others wanted me collared and caged until they could figure out if I was involved. Pash didn't let them."

“That sap,” said Gideon fondly. “Pash and I were both on the front lines, but we didn't meet until afterwards. She commanded a platoon of soldiers, and I reported directly to Commander Awake These Valiant Dead herself. Mom kept me on solo missions, so I didn't talk to the other soldiers much.”

Fuck, she hadn't meant to ramble on like that. Gideon gritted her teeth and stared across the room at a mystery stain on the wall. “Sorry, you don't need to hear about– any of that.”

Harrow rubbed her thumb over Gideon's knuckles. “If you wish to speak of it, I will listen.”

Gideon interlaced her fingers with Harrow's and tried to draw courage from her presence, but she kept her eyes fixed on the mystery stain. “I was sent on suicide runs that would’ve killed anyone else, but not me. The Commander made sure that I started developing my healing ability early– but that's a different story. When I was on the front lines, I'd get dropped on the enemy's side and just… go off.”

As Gideon spoke, she tried to detach herself from her words. It was easier to talk about if she didn't feel it, as if it were someone else's life. Harrow's hand in her hand kept her grounded and made it real, but it also made her want to cry.

“I only ever knew the bare minimum of what was going on. It didn't matter what planet, or what Cohort faction. Sometimes, mom would show me a photo and say ‘make sure you get this one’, but usually my only directive was to kill every necromancer I saw.

“What was really fucked up is how young we all were. It took me a while to realize that I was just a kid murdering other kids. After mom died, no one could make me do it anymore.”

Harrow's hand in her hand, scarred on both sides from where a dagger had sliced into her. Gideon scrubbed the heel of her free hand over her eyes as tears began to flood her vision. Her chest still ached and crying made it worse. “It's my fault you got hurt. I'm so sorry, Harrow.”

“Gideon–”

“I didn't want to kill anyone again. I thought I could handle it, but I was sloppy and– I mean, okay, I did immediately shoot that one guy in the face. But I saw him hit you, so I guess he had it coming.” Gideon forced a laugh, but her voice cracked. She pressed her forearm over her eyes. “I just– I don't know. I don't want to fight anymore, but I need it to mean something. I need there to be a reason why I went through all that. If I can't protect you, then what's even the point of me?”

Harrow was quiet for a long time. Gideon appreciated that she never relied on empty platitudes, but found herself wishing that she would say something, anything.

“I used to think that I suffered because I deserved it,” Harrow began slowly. “However, if that were true, why did the universe deem me worthy of being brought into your life? I have never been good, nor did I become good.

“I have come to believe that suffering does not have any meaning outside of what we choose to ascribe to it. And I, personally, cannot choose to believe that any harm that has been done to you was either fated or necessary.”

Gideon lowered her arm and looked at Harrow, who looked back at her with the same strange intensity that she always had. Even when dressed in only a shirt, there was an imposing quality to Harrow Nonagesimus that couldn't be lessened. She raised their clasped hands to her mouth and kissed Gideon's knuckles.

“When I first arrived here, you were my one bright light in the city. You have been my advocate, my cavalier, and my dearest friend.” Harrow's mouth curved into a mischievous smile. “At times, you have also been my silly rabbit.”

Gideon laughed and wiped her tear-streaked face on her shirt. “You've never called me that before.”

“And I never will again,” said Harrow. She shifted on the bed, getting onto her knees and moving closer. She took Gideon's face in her hands and brushed her thumbs over her freckled cheeks. “But I will always be proud to call you my wife.”

Gideon's face flushed and she closed her eyes as tears began to well in them again. She leaned eagerly into Harrow’s touch, focusing on the heat of her hands and the nearness of her. Gideon felt a warm breath on her lips and tipped forward to meet Harrow in a kiss.

It was sweet and her heart felt lighter, but it wasn't enough to match the sudden hunger gnawing in her gut. Gideon put her hands on Harrow's hips, pulling her close and kissing her hard. Harrow made a small sound and slipped her hands from Gideon’s jaw to her hair, tugging at the roots and making her groan.

“Harrow…” Gideon pleaded and she felt Harrow's chest move with quiet laughter.

“Why is it that your stress response is tied so strongly to your arousal?”

“I need a prescription, Doctor Nonagesimus,” Gideon batted her eyelashes extravagantly, “for sexual healing.”

Harrow beheld the object of her utmost affection with blatant dismay. “I can't believe I'm going to fuck you.”

“You don't have to.”

“Take off your shirt,” said Harrow, nearly snapping the words in her eagerness, “and you get to be the one who explains to We Suffer why we're late for the meeting.”

“Yes ma’am.” Gideon whipped her shirt off, launching it across the room. She leaned in to kiss Harrow again and again.

—

Gideon couldn't blame the wing commander for having an overabundance of caution, but she did mind the inconvenience. After they left the hospital, she and Harrow were checked into a new hotel room every week. It was unknown how many, if any, rogue Cohort soldiers remained loose in the city, or if they had knowledge of the safe houses. In the interest of avoiding any additional near-death experiences, We Suffer kept them on the move.

They had returned to the apartment only once, to each collect a suitcase’s worth of personal effects and to box up the rest for storage. Harrow, who had arrived on New Rho with only her Ninth House trunk, was surprised to find how much she had collected in the year she lived there. She intended to discard most of her paintings, but Gideon insisted on boxing up every last one of them.

“It's already sad enough that we can't take the sunset one with us,” she'd said while staring wistfully at the mural in Harrow's room. There was a dried spray of blood across a sand dune.

“Once we are settled somewhere else, I can simply paint a new one. My other works are not nearly so cheerful.”

“They're creepy as fuck,” agreed Gideon, “but you made them.”

The springtime passed by in a blur of hotel rooms and almost daily meetings. They were mostly logistical discussions; where they would be traveling when they visited the Houses, which Officials could be met with and when, how much space travel the Reverend Daughter could tolerate before the lack of thanergy made her sick, et cetera.

The space elevator was repaired and reopened in time to quietly welcome the Warden of the Sixth House to New Rho. He came at Harrowhark's invitation and arrived with a small delegation in tow. They advised the Blood of Eden on current inter-House politics, as well as offered their recommendation on the restructuring of their governments.

Their presence was met with less hostility than Gideon expected. She had to admit that she was finally seeing the results of her efforts at fostering cohesion in BoE meetings over the past year. Plus, Harrow had basically flipped her own reputation overnight as word traveled about how she had fought off her attempted abductors and assisted in the hospitals, which she continued to do. Despite Pash’s claims to the contrary, she had a surprisingly gentle bedside manner with the infirmed and elderly. Harrow mentioned offhandedly to Gideon that she'd performed a similar role as part of her duties back on the Ninth.

Gideon thought there was probably more to it than that, as she realized that Harrow had also understated the nature of her relationship with Palamedes Sextus. At their first opportunity to speak privately, he swept Harrow up in a hug– to the horror of both the Reverend Daughter and Camilla the Sixth.

Whenever they had the opportunity, Gideon and Harrow resumed their habit of exploring the city. Now that they knew for certain that their days on New Rho were numbered, it became imperative that they idle away the afternoons like this as often as possible.

“I'm glad we got to be here for one last spring,” said Gideon, on one such excursion through the city's largest park. They sat in the shade of a large, leafy tree. “There were a lot of sand storms before they started terraforming. It's been interesting to see more green areas pop up around the city.”

“Do you like plants?” asked Harrow, which seemed a ridiculous thing to ask while they were sitting in the middle of the largest plant collection that the metropolitan area had to boast.

“Well, yeah. Don't you? You were really into those trees with the moss.”

“Well, yes,” said Harrow, but she sounded unsure. She fidgeted with the strap of the black canvas bag she carried. These days, she carried her journal– and several other organizational instruments– everywhere with her. “However, I was wondering if, perhaps, your interests in the local vegetation were more specific.”

Gideon gave her a bemused smile. “My vague and enigmatic lady of the roundabout question, what are you trying to ask me?”

With great solemnity, Harrow reached into her bag and fished something out. Her expression was grim as she passed a small potted plant to Gideon. There was a clear cup taped over the top to protect it, but through it Gideon could see a tiny, spiny green thing.

“I know it's a few months late, but I wanted to give you something,” Harrow explained in a rush. “Issa mentioned that you had asked her about flowers. She assumed that you were shopping for me, but I thought you might want them for yourself since, to my recollection, I had not expressed a particular interest in plants. Aside from the aforementioned trees, of course.”

Gideon was wide-eyed with astonishment. “You got me a cactus.”

“It requires minimal water and will flower in the summer. Although, I suppose I don't know how taking it off-planet will affect that.” Harrow's expression was tight as she watched for Gideon's reaction. “Is it… alright?”

Gideon carefully set down the cactus. She threw her arms around Harrow, knocking her onto the grass. She nuzzled her face into the crook of her neck.

“Oh,” said Harrow, sounding relieved even though she was partially squished. She patted Gideon’s arm. “Happy anniversary.”

Gideon squeezed her eyes shut and bit back everything she wanted to say. She felt as though she were about to vibrate out of her skin, and Harrow was the only thing anchoring her in place. She knew that they were on the precipice of a shift in their relationship. Gideon feared how much would come to change between them in the next few weeks, as they left New Rho behind.

Long fingers carded through her hair.

“Gideon, what's wrong?”

Even the way Harrow said her name felt like something special. No one else had ever spoken to her so gently, or whispered her name like a secret kept safe between the two of them.

Gideon swallowed, twice, and tried to respond with something that would be more truth than lie. “I didn't think you wanted to celebrate our anniversary. Losing our home like that reminded me that this marriage was something done to you, not something you chose.”

Harrow's blunt nails scratched pleasantly over Gideon's scalp. “That is true. Had I been given a choice, I do not believe I would have ever willingly attached myself to someone. I am glad it was you.”

—

Pash recovered and added another recurring activity to Gideon's schedule: sparring matches. After thoroughly berating Gideon for being out of shape and unwilling to kill, she began to instruct her in non-lethal self defense. Gideon would often leave these sessions sore and exhausted, as Pash quickly advanced to stabbing or shooting at Gideon to test her skills.

After spending an afternoon being chased by a double machete-wielding Pash, Gideon showered at the gym and headed back to their home-of-the-week. She was beginning to suspect that the absence of other people when she visited the gym might have less to do with herself and more to do with Pash.

Gideon went without an escort, but kept the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up over her telltale red hair. She was able to spot the Edenite agents posted near the motel to protect her and Harrow, though they didn't acknowledge each other.

“You're back. Good.” Harrow stood on her toes to briefly kiss her wife. She had traded out her scarf-and-mask combo for Gideon’s sunglasses and a hat with a wide brim. Very incognito. A bag was slung over one shoulder and she waved her hand at a larger, bulkier bag on the counter. “Carry this and come with me.”

Gideon picked up the bag, relieved that it wasn't heavy, and glanced longingly at the bed. “I’ll come back for you,” she whispered before following Harrow out the door.

Most of the hotels they visited were close to the BoE headquarters, but this one was only a few blocks from the sea. There was salt mingling with the familiar smells of the city, and at night she could sometimes hear the distant sound of the waves breaking on the shore. The days were getting longer as spring ended and it was nearing sunset; the brief lull in the evening when after-work traffic had passed but nightlife hadn't yet begun.

“Where are we going?” Gideon followed Harrow along a downhill slope. This was a street that ended at the water, but the idea of Harrow organizing a beach date seemed too good to be true.

“On a picnic.” Harrow frowned at the surprise on Gideon's face. “Is that not what it's called when food is consumed at an unconventional outdoor location?”

“Uh, yeah! But why?”

“You said you wanted to go on one. This is probably our final opportunity to do so on this planet.”

Gideon stopped walking as the sea came into view. Its shifting surface sparkled with sunlight and a breeze kicked up, sending a fresh burst of cool air over her skin. For all the time that she had lived on New Rho, Gideon had never gone to the beach as often as she liked.

A pang of homesickness rocked her heart. How strange, to feel grief even though the loss had yet to occur.

“This is the longest I've ever lived in one place,” said Gideon.

Harrow stopped a few steps ahead and turned to look at her. She smiled slightly, but it was soft and sad. “This is the shortest I've ever lived in one place. Come along, Griddle.”

Gideon caught up to her in one quick stride, and she slipped her hand into Harrow's.

The barrier nets along the harbor had been in place for as long as Gideon had lived there, but she'd heard stories about how quickly a jellyfish sting could kill a person. Despite the lingering threat of death and despite the cool weather, there were a handful of people out on the sand and walking on the pier.

Harrow led Gideon close to the water and extracted a blanket from the larger bag, which explained the bulk. From her own, she  revealed their picnic dinner: sandwiches from a shop that Gideon liked. One had two different kinds of fried fish, and the other was a long slice of toasted bread. They sat on the blanket and ate in silence, listening to the sound of the waves and watching the sky turn dark.

The sun sank on the opposite side of the city, over the desert, and they couldn't see it beyond the line of buildings. The other beach goers began to leave as the stars came out. The lights along the boardwalk came on and Harrow removed her sunglasses. Gideon left her hood up, but she took off her shoes and dug her toes into the cold sand.

“Four days left,” said Gideon. “Anything you want to do?”

Harrow thought about it. “We should practice your address to the House Officials.”

“I meant something that can only be done on New Rho. Like eating the mystery sandwich at the Salt Chip Fish Shop, or trying to pet those big desert cats.” Gideon kept her eyes on the stars, but she could feel Harrow’s sharp gaze on her. She laid back on the blanket with an exaggerated sigh. “Harrow, I am physically incapable of giving a speech. My brain will shut down and I'll go catatonic, or I'll freak and jump out a window. It's best for everyone's safety if we give up on that.”

“Yet, you often carry on chattering.”

“Yeah, to you. That's different. I could barely talk to my coworkers at my goodbye party, and I knew some of them for five years.”

“And what of your infamous slut era?” In a shocking display of public affection– they were alone on the dark beach, but it still caught Gideon off guard– Harrow laid down and pressed herself against Gideon's side. “You expect me to believe that you made it though that without ever speaking?”

“I leaned into the silent-and-handsome thing! Plus, I had this script –” Gideon was flustered and cut herself off before she could say something that Harrow would never let her live down. “Anyway, I'm definitely not leadership material. I'm barely even political puppet material.”

“That is why I am assisting you,” said Harrow, which was another massive understatement. She often took the lead in their meetings with Blood of Eden and was obviously more adept at political intrigue when it came to interactions with the Houses. Gideon saw the ease with which Harrow could multitask and understood the restless boredom that had plagued her when they first began living together.

Harrow played with the hem of Gideon’s sweatshirt, running her fingers along a seam. “Gideon, no one hates you as much as you think they do.”

Gideon was willing to admit that this might be true on New Rho, but she had no doubt that the impending conference with the House Officials would be filled to the brim with loathing. Well, okay, maybe there was a little bit of doubt, now that she had met Palamedes Sextus. Gideon was pretty sure the only things he hated were dust allergies and people who didn't use proper citations.

“I'm really glad you're here. You're so good at organizing people and getting shit done.”

“A large part of it is just knowing how to delegate. That is why it is essential to build a team of people we can trust to act on our behalf.”

“You're not wrong, but…”

“Correct. I am never wrong."

Gideon blew a raspberry on Harrow's cheek. Harrow swatted at her in retaliation and dried her face on Gideon's shoulder.

“I have this idea of the kind of Commander that I'd like to be, but I have no idea how to get there.” Gideon’s eyes traced the stars. She wished that she saw constellations instead of old battlefields. “Sometimes, when I'm around other people, I get this awful feeling in my gut. I get worried that I'm not pretending well enough.”

“What are you pretending?”

“I don't know. That I'm a person?”

“You are a person.”

“Only recently! Until I came to New Rho, I was just–” Gideon gestured uselessly with the arm that Harrow wasn't laying on “– a means to an end.”

Gideon felt Harrow stiffen beside her. When she spoke, her words were barely audible. “Right. Of course.”

Harrow sat up and looked towards the horizon, now nearly invisible in the moonless night. Another breeze rolled over them and her hair moved in the wind, but she was otherwise as immobile as a statue.

“Harrow?”

Harrow looked at Gideon. Her expression was carefully impassive, as though she were wearing a layer of skull paint to hide herself. Her dark eyes roamed over Gideon's face. She touched her fingertips to Gideon's brow, moving with featherlight pressure over her nose and cheekbones. She traced the edge of her jaw and pressed a thumb to her lower lip.

“I suppose,” Harrow said slowly, "it will have to be now.”

“I love it when you get all portentous,” quipped Gideon, in an attempt to gloss over the uneasy feeling that was pooling in her gut.

Apropos of nothing, Harrow shrugged off her jacket and began to unlace her boots. “Come into the water with me.”

“You know it's gonna be like ice.” Gideon glanced up and down the beach, but there was no one else. She pulled her sweatshirt over her head, along with the t-shirt underneath.

“Oh!” Harrow’s voice pitched higher, nearly squeaking. “You don't have to– I mean, of course you wouldn't want your clothes to get wet.”

Gideon blinked at her. “Did you not just invite me to go skinny dipping?”

“No,” Harrow said firmly. She had taken off her shoes and socks, but that was where her disrobing ended. She glanced around the beach in the same way that Gideon had. “Let's go under the pier.”

The water wasn’t as cold as Gideon thought it would be, but it was still colder than she preferred. She put her shirt back on, since apparently her tits were too distracting for Harrow (nice), but she was absolutely not going to deal with soggy pants. She waded her bare legs into the black water beneath the pier, picking her way around the rocks and seaweed clumps. The lamplight couldn't reach them beneath the pier and she shivered when she was chest-deep. Harrow guided her way; a patch of moving shadow ahead of her in the dark, breaking the pattern of the waves as she glided through them.

“Are you going to explain why we're here, if not for sexy reasons?” whispered Gideon. She reached out and found Harrow’s arm, pulling her into a hug. She didn't want to be out too far, especially not in the dark, and especially since Harrow couldn't swim.

Harrow gently disentangled herself from their embrace. She squeezed Gideon's hands, and let go.

“There's something I have to tell you.”

And so, Harrow told her.

Gideon listened to a story about a girl, a tomb, and two hundred corpses. Her heart grew heavy as Harrow spoke. She let herself sink in the water until it came up to her chin.

When Harrow finished, a silence fell between them. It was broken only by the sound of waves lapping at the shore.

“Say something,” said Harrow. Her voice quavered, either from nerves or the cold. Probably both.

Gideon knew that the best thing to say would be something kind and empathetic. What she actually said was: “Is it weird that your tragic backstory is somehow both more and less horrible than I thought it would be?”

Harrow made a sound that might have been a laugh, but it was weak and tired. “I am sorry for lying to you.”

“I wouldn't have told me either,” said Gideon. She reached for Harrow, but she flinched away. “Harrow, it's okay.”

“No, it isn't!” Harrow snapped, raising her voice. She moved away from Gideon, the water sloshing. “I am exactly the kind of necromantic sin that your Blood of Eden frets about. Even among the Houses, I would be considered an abomination. It's only a matter of time until the Fifth– with all their well-intentioned meddling– uncovers the truth about me, and then–”

“I won't let anyone hurt you.” Gideon tried to reassure her, but Harrow scoffed.

“You would promise the impossible, wouldn't you? Regardless, I have already lost the Ninth. I cannot fulfill the purpose I was created for. The only thing worse than a monster is a useless one.”

Harrow struggled to calm her own quickened breathing. She took a deep, steadying breath, but her voice still shook. “I understand that by telling you this, I have put you in a precarious position. However, I intend to take full responsibility.”

Alarm bells began to sound in Gideon’s mind. “Don’t, Harrow. That was– that was something done to you, it wasn't your choice.”

“No, it wasn’t,” agreed Harrow. She sounded so very tired. More than her rage or her pride, Gideon thought that it always came back to this: at her core, Harrow was exhausted. “But I am going to fix this.”

A sudden chill raised bumps on Gideon's skin, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

“I have made all the necessary arrangements. Going forward, Sextus will aid you with managing the Houses. Please give him the letter I've left in my journal.”

Harrow’s voice grew distant and Gideon realized that she was quietly moving away from shore. She whispered across the space between them. “The time we've spent together has felt like a long dream, Gideon. I am so grateful to have known you–” her voice broke “– to have loved you.”

Gideon’s body sang with terror and she surged forward. She grabbed blindly for Harrow and wasn't prepared to be kicked in the stomach. She wheezed and choked on a mouthful of saltwater, her feet no longer touching the bottom as Harrow propelled herself into deeper water.

Little did Harrow know, Gideon had played this game before. She used to dive off the pier, swimming deeper and deeper until her lungs screamed for air. She would swim until she was exhausted, every muscle burning, and collapse on the shore. Being alive always felt better when she was forced to fight for it.

So, Gideon quickly caught up to Harrow, who was doing her best to doggy paddle her way to death. They floundered and thrashed until Gideon could lock an arm around Harrow’s chest, pinning her arms to her sides. Gideon dragged her back into the shallows as Harrow continued to fight her.

“Let me go!”

“No, you idiot!”

“I don't know how to swim, it would look like an accident.” Harrow nearly bit her tongue as Gideon hoisted her over one shoulder and trudged out of the water, leaving the pier behind. “Gideon, listen to me–”

“I'm not letting you drown yourself, dumbass!”

Gideon dumped her onto the shore. She covered Harrow’s body with her own, pressing her into the wet sand. Harrow struggled and flailed, beating her fists and clawing at Gideon's arms and chest. Gideon laid over her like a very aggressive weighted blanket, keeping her pinned down. Harrow choked on a sob as she tired herself out. She pushed uselessly at Gideon's shoulders.

“Just let me go,” Harrow pleaded through her tears, “it will be so much worse for you if I live.”

“If you think I'm just going to sit back and let you kill yourself, then you're the fucking mayor of clown town.”

Gideon lifted herself onto her elbows and looked down at Harrow. In the faint light of the boardwalk lamps, she had the likeness of a very sad, very soggy rat. She glared reproachfully with bloodshot eyes, her tears mixing with the seawater. Gideon used her thumb to smooth the crease between Harrow's eyebrows, and pressed a kiss there.

“I love you, too,” whispered Gideon. Her heart ached with the truth of it. “So, don't go anywhere. Stay with me. Please.”

Harrow squeezed her eyes shut and shivered. More tears rolled down her cheeks. “Take it back,” she croaked. “You don't understand what that means for me. You don't understand what it means to love something like me.”

“You’re lucky that being a hypocrite isn't a fatal diagnosis,” said Gideon. She got to her feet, retrieving their bags from a few paces away. Adrenaline and fear made her body tremble, but she kept her voice steady. "You know, I had a lot of time to think about it, and I decided that love isn't something that just happens. It's an active decision, Harrow.”

Harrow didn’t acknowledge her. She stared up at the sky while Gideon sat next to her and rummaged around in their things.

“Love is me leaving food outside your door, and making sure that you always wear a helmet on the motorcycle. It's encouraging your bone-related hobbies even though they freak me out. And, sometimes, it's hiding the exorbitant amount of money that we spend on glue paint in the construction budget. I want to love you, so I do."

Gideon found her pants and dug into a pocket. She removed a small box and placed it on Harrow’s chest, right in the middle of her sternum.

Harrow’s ribs stilled. She took a very shallow breath and hissed, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Am I?” Gideon cocked her head with mock thoughtfulness. “Would I be the type of person to get you a ring box and put something else inside it? Maybe a hard candy, or a very smooth pebble? You know I love a nice-looking rock–” Gideon smiled slyly “– almost as much as I love you.”

Harrow made a sound like she was trying very hard to suppress a scream and threw herself upright. She hunched her shoulders, curling in on herself, and opened the box.

Gideon tucked a lock of wet hair behind Harrow's ear. “I wanted to give you a nicer wedding band. One that can't explode.”

Harrow clicked her tongue in disapproval. “How long have you had this?”

“A few months. I ordered it before the work party, but forgot about it with all the– everything.”

“And you've been carrying it around this entire time?”

“Harrow, you are both the love of my life –” now that Gideon had said it once, she couldn't stop saying it “– and the biggest goddamn snoop I know. Of course I carried it around! Otherwise you'd have found it.”

“It's not like you needed to plan a proposal.”

“No, but I wanted to wait for the right moment. Which, I guess, is now. Do you like it?”

Harrow’s shoulders began to shake. She laughed as a new deluge of tears streamed down her face. “This is awful. Completely tacky.”

Gideon took the box from Harrow and removed the ring. It was a silver band that formed a pair of skeletal hands in the shape of a heart. Held between the hands was a small yellow stone. Harrow graciously extended her own trembling hand and allowed Gideon to slip it onto her finger.

“You've really done it this time, Griddle.” Harrow sniffled and smiled tiredly at Gideon. “There will be no getting rid of me now.”

“I'm choosing to interpret that as a promise to never pull this shit again,” Gideon said pointedly. “I can't believe you double-booked our date with a suicide attempt. I mean, I can, but– Anyway, c’mon. Arms up.”

Harrow obediently put her arms up and Gideon peeled off her wet shirt, replacing it with her dry hoodie. Then, Gideon tugged on her pants, picked up their bags, and carried Harrow on her back. They didn't speak on the way to the motel, both too worn out.

After they showered and changed into clean, dry clothes, Gideon and Harrow and Sausage curled up together in bed. Harrow blinked her red, puffy eyes slowly as she ran her hand over Sausage’s fur. Gideon watched them for a while, then reached for the bedside lamp.

“Gideon,” murmured Harrow.

Gideon left the light on. “Hm?”

Harrow lifted her hand and extended her smallest finger to Gideon. She was still wearing the ring and the yellow stone glittered. “For as long as you will have me, I will remain at your side.”

Gideon's heart somersaulted in her chest as she linked her own pinky with Harrow's. She shifted closer to kiss her, long and soft and slow. The last of the evening's anxiety left her and she playfully bit Harrow's nose. Harrow didn't even move away, she just huffed with mild annoyance. Gideon turned off the lamp and wriggled until she was tucked close and comfortable alongside her wife.

“I love you,” whispered Gideon, grinning foolishly.

“Shut up,” whispered Harrow. She turned and pressed her face to Gideon's skin. Harrow didn't speak, but Gideon felt her mouth move in the shape of three distinct words.

—

The intercom beeped, making Harrow groan as she was disturbed from sleep. She had been drifting in and out of consciousness for a few hours now, but wasn't quite ready to get up. She burrowed more deeply into the blankets, disturbing Sausage as she rearranged herself. The little tabby huffed and tried to crawl into Harrow's cocoon, chasing her warmth. Harrow smiled as a wet nose nuzzled her face.

The intercom beeped again. Harrow sighed and reluctantly dragged herself out of bed. She stood slowly, swallowing down a wave of nausea. She tried to ignore how weirdly sensitive her skin felt and wrapped a blanket around herself like a cloak.

Harrow shuffled out of the bedroom and through the parlor. She raised her hand to press the intercom button by the autodoor and spared a moment to admire the ring she never took off. “Yes, what is it?”

“Lady Harrowhark.” Issa spoke in her usual clear and precise way. “I apologize for disturbing you, but you're needed for a call in the communications room.”

Harrow took her finger off the button and groaned loudly before responding. “If it’s the Eighth again, please inform Silas Octakiseron that he may choke on his own tongue and expire immediately. But, you know, politely.”

“I understand. However, you may find it beneficial to take his call now, as we will soon begin the descent into Corinth’s atmosphere.”

Harrow was once again glad that she had been able to recruit her former accounting supervisor. “Alright. Tell him I will be available in twenty minutes.”

It took a leisurely forty minutes for the Reverend Daughter to prepare herself for the day. She had new robes, but they were fashioned in the traditional style of the Ninth House with an abundance of lace and secret pockets. She sat at her vanity and found a note stuck to the center of the mirror, in familiar blocky penmanship: Hello, Gorgeous! Harrow traced the G with her finger and moved the note to the edge, adding it to a collection of similar notes.

She carefully applied the sacramental skull of Saint Anastasia at the Dawn, which involved quite a bit of intricate brushwork. Sausage begged to be fed, curling round and around Harrow's ankles, but the human was not fooled.

“Your attempt at deceit is admirable,” Harrow told her, “but I have become wise to your duplicitous nature.”

Harrow did not make the bed, which would annoy the person she shared it with, but knew that she would be forgiven. She checked on the small greenhouse that took up an entire shelf of a bookcase in the parlor. The electric grow light was set on a timer to mimic the sunlight that the plants might have received if they were still on New Rho. One of them was blooming; it had an oversized pink flower that nearly dwarfed the cactus it grew from.

The place that Harrow called home for the past two months was smaller than the apartment on New Rho. It did not have a kitchen or a second bedroom, but it was quiet and comfortable in a way that Harrow never expected to experience again. Many of the things that had been put into storage were now scattered around their living space. It was like turning a kaleidoscope and seeing a new side to something familiar.

Harrow refreshed the bone ward at the threshold to their home, lowered her lace veil, and stepped through the autodoor. It was lunchtime, so everyone was in the commissary and she encountered few people on her way to the communications room.

The current communications technician was one of the Sixth– they all looked like displaced librarians– and he bowed his head in greeting before gesturing to the open chair in front of a black screen. When Harrow was seated, he counted down from three on his fingers. The screen flickered on to reveal the pale and austere Master Templar of the White Glass.

“Reverend Daughter. How wonderful for you to make time for me in your undoubtedly busy schedule,” said Silas Octakiseron, with nearly palpable frost in his words.

“Lord Octakiseron,” said Harrowhark Nonagesimus, matching his chill with the icy catacombs of Drearburh. “It is true that my time is both limited and valuable. Speak, but know that I charge by the minute.”

“I was hoping you would expound upon why the Eighth was denied an invitation to this new council you are building. As the House of the Emperor's salvation–”

“I believe you have answered your own question,” said Harrow. “The selection of representatives from the Houses was based not only on past merit, but what they will bring into the future. If all the Eighth House has to offer is the salvation of an absent God,  you have rendered yourselves irrelevant.”

Octakiseron’s eyes bulged with barely restrained fury. “The Eighth, more so than any other, is representative of the cultural heritage of the Empire.”

“If that is truly your concern, then my presence alone should satisfy you. Who better to speak for the legacy of the Nine than the last Reverend Daughter herself?”

“The Ninth House is now the property of the Fifth. You have no claim–”

A vibration traveled through the length of the ship and the image on the screen shifted, flickering. They were beginning the descent into Corinth's atmosphere.

“Come again?” Harrow tilted her head with mock concern. “It has become difficult to hear you.”

“Reverend Daughter–”

The ship did not shake again, but in Harrow's periphery vision she could see the technician fiddle with a couple of knobs. The screen and sound both flickered. 

“Alas, it seems we are losing your signal.”

“You are not –”

“Farewell.”

The call was cut and the screen went black. There was a hint of amusement on the technician’s face as he briefly inclined his head to Harrow again on her way out.

Harrow made her way to the training deck next. She passed more people this time; black-clad Edenites and gray robed Sixth who saluted or bowed to her. When she arrived at the training deck, she spotted two blue uniforms.

Baron Tettares and his cavalier Chatur were being kept as political prisoners in the same way that the Reverend Daughter was, but they didn't seem to mind overly much. Their presence ensured that negotiations with the Fourth House went smoothly, and they were able to provide information on the Cohort defectors. Surprisingly, they both appeared to genuinely enjoy spending time with the Commander and developed a habit of seeking her out.

They must have finished training, because all three of them were lined up by the large window at the far end of the training deck. The planet of Corinth was in full view, its red and brown surface visible beneath swaths of clouds. They spoke in hushed tones, but Harrow's Ninth House ears were accustomed to deciphering whispers and she eavesdropped shamelessly.

“I miss my family, but it's not like I got to see them very often anyway.” Isaac Tettares sighed. “I haven't been home in years.”

“Chin up! We’ll see them in a few months, after we're done touring the Edenite planets,” said Jeannemary Chatur. “At least we're getting to do a bit of sightseeing this time. Being in the Cohort was a lot of bunkers and murder. No time for anything fun.”

Chatur slung an arm around her necromancer’s shoulder but he made a sound like “Bleh!” and pushed her off.

“Jeanne, you're all sweaty!”

Chatur waved her sweaty hands threateningly as Tettares darted out of reach. “This sweat is the sweat of pride! No one else gets to teach the Commander how to be a proper cavalier!”

"Gideon is my cavalier by marriage, not by merit,” said Harrow. She had silently approached them from behind, making the Fourth jump, but they quickly recovered.

"Oh, I know this one!" Tettares snapped his fingers. "You're cavalier pri-married."

Harrow wasn't sure what kind of expression she must have made, but Gideon, who was already grinning from the joke, burst into laughter.

“That’s really good!” Gideon wiped a tear of mirth from her eye. “I'll have to remember that one.”

“For what?” Harrow groused.

The Fourth pair quickly excused themselves, giggling and tripping over each other in their haste. Harrow watched the autodoor close behind them and rolled her eyes.

“Why is it that they worship you, but I make them skittish?”

“Probably because they saw you lose your shit when I died.”

Harrow considered this. “In my defense, I don't really remember what happened.”

“Yeah, tranquilizers will do that.”

Gideon grinned her crooked and toothy smile. She was out of uniform in loose pants and a shirt that she had cut the sleeves off of. There was sweat on her brow, her vibrant red hair was rumpled, and she looked every bit as marvelous as the day they had met. Gideon carefully lifted the veil and bent to kiss her wife, Harrow rising onto her toes to meet her halfway. 

Gideon turned to the window to watch as the planet came closer, slipping an arm around Harrow's waist and pulling her to her side. Her amber eyes were wide with excitement, but they softened with affection when she looked at Harrow. “What is it? Am I more gorgeous than the view?”

“Is it really so interesting?” asked Harrow, neatly dodging the question. “You’ve probably seen dozens of landings like this.”

“Not really. As a soldier, I was usually cooped up in the hold. How are you feeling?”

“My constitution will improve after we land.” The unspoken after I can be near a better source of thanergy was implied.

“Your constitution would be ecstatic if you ate regular meals.”

Harrow hummed in response. Truthfully, the smell of Gideon’s sweat was helping to ease her nausea, but she would sooner cross the River than admit to it. “Shall we venture to the bridge? You would have a better view.”

“No. I'm not doing anything useful there, so I always feel like a tourist.”

“Captain Tennille wouldn't mind. Plus, you're their boss.”

“True. Maybe next time.”

Harrow leaned into Gideon and watched the planet drift closer. After a while, she said, “You need to get cleaned up for the reception.”

“And let you miss out on all this body odor you could be huffing?” Gideon laughed at Harrow's expression for the second time in under an hour. “Did you think you were being subtle?”

Harrow felt herself flush from her hairline to her clavicle. She tried and failed to expediently manufacture a clever comeback, so instead she turned on her heel in a haughty flourish of black fabric. “Come along, Griddle.”

Gideon caught up to her in one long stride, and slapped Harrow’s ass.