“Come here,” you said, less steadily than you would have liked. Ianthe obliged you instantly, still smiling that same secret, conspiratorial smile. She arranged herself in the chair by the bed, and you noticed her favouring the left arm, as though the right was too heavy a burden.
You swung your legs off the hospital cot and stood before her, considering, and you reached out to cup Ianthe’s face in your hands. When you tilted her jaw up to you her skin was discoloured under your skin. You found your mouth and eyes screwing up, but the vile course of action was obvious. You leant down and kissed her squarely on the mouth. This, at least, she hadn’t expected, and her mouth froze against yours, which gave you time to work. Ianthe was a black hole to you, unreadable; but close physical proximity could help. New bone always gave itself away. The lining of her cells was in keeping with old bone. When you pressed the tip of your tongue to her tongue she made a half-wounded sound—she was probably trying to call for help —but although the lingual muscle was not your area of specialty, you could probe through flesh the signs that her foramen bone was whole, unscarred by a fresh rip of the tongue from the mouth. You were safe.
You withdrew, finally, your mouth from her mouth. Ianthe was left, lips slightly parted, eyebrows raised.
“I pledge myself again to the service of Ianthe Tridentarius, Princess of Ida, daughter of the Third House,” you said. “I swear again to honour any previous agreements I made to her. I swear by my mother; by the salt water; by that which lies dead and unbreathing in the Tomb; by the ripped and remade soul of Ortus Nigenad.”
“Who?” she said. “Oh, yes — the cavalier.”
Ianthe wiped the pad of her thumb over her lips. “Well,” she said eventually, “that constitutes some improvement over your sewing my lips shut, like you did the … no, pardon me, I agreed not to mention incidental detail. All I shall say is that for a House that trades solely in bone, you own some enormous needles. I accept your fealty again, Ninth House, and can only assume that you have now read the agreement.”
You sat back down on the bed and placed your hand on the sword. “You have wrung a great deal of blood from what seems to be a very littlestone,” you said.
“I gave you something you cared about very deeply at the time,” she said, idly swinging one leg to perch over one knee. “I don’t consider my price all that high … and neither did you. What’s more, now we are about to embark on what promises to be a truly beautiful friendship, with me the lone fruitful thing in your salted field, et cetera, so I’ll thank you to not embark on the I have been hard done by act.”
Your fingers pressed down hard on the wide breadth of steel. The thundering in your ears was a patchwork of sound and adrenaline, and your heart was sore. “The pledge did not condone disrespect,” you said. “I will not suffer insult. I am the Reverend Daughter. I am a Lyctor. I am in your debt, but I am not here for your amusement.”
“Not in that thing you’re not, certainly,” said Ianthe, whose lip was curling. “You look like a huge peppermint. Here, take this.”
Ianthe reached under her chair and handed you a bundle of robes in the same mother-of-pearl colours of hers. The color did not become you, but it was covering and hugely preferable to your hospital gown. You pulled the hood deep over your head and did not bother to hide your sigh of relief.
You flicked through the stack of envelopes, and could not help scanning the requirements. Some of them were plain and stark. To open in the event of Ianthe’s death. To open if the Ninth House is in mortal danger. Some of them were opaque to the point of madness. To open if your eyes change. If met, to give to Camilla Hect. You wondered, mystified, if you had ever known the last name of Camilla the Sixth, a woman you could not recall interacting with at any point.
“I will remain in possession of the last two,” said Ianthe, having risen to stand. “I will tell you openly that there’s one I get to open in case you die, which is fun.”
You flipped through. Your eyes fell on: To open if you meet Coronabeth Tridentarius. This was different from the other envelopes in that it was not written in cipher. Ianthe’s eyes fell on it too.
“You wrote that one in front of me,” she said. “I can summarise the contents … you are now pledged to me and by extension to Coronabeth, and I tell you for free that one of the riders is that you will never harm a hair on my sister’s head.”
“Your sister is likely no longer alive,” you said, seeing no reason not to say it.
She threw back her head and laughed outright. “Corona!” she said, when she was done. “My sweet baby Corona is far too stupid to die — she’d walk backward out of the River swearing blind she was going in the right direction. I will tell you when my sister is dead, thank you, Harrowhark — and that day is not today.”
Your head was swimming. In a way, you were relieved. You resented being part of your own master plan, as you resented any peremptory order and attempt to keep things secret from you, but you could follow your own commands if the alternative was madness.
“If it is all the same to you, I would like to be alone now,” you said. “I have a great deal to think about.”
Ianthe said, “How politely expressed!”
She drew her skirts around her and curtseyed to you. When she looked up at you, you saw her eyes had changed yet again. They were both lavender now, but freckled with light brown like a constellation.
You said, because again you could see no reason not to: “You should have disciplined Tern better, if he’s still fighting you this way.”
Ianthe considered this. She took out from her robes a long knife. It was—though you weren’t sure how you recognized it — Tern’s trident knife.
She placed her palm before you, outstretched. Without a moment’s hesitation, or sign of pain, or even much give, she thrust the knife through the meat of her palm. It must have done enormous damage, and drops of blood splattered the sleeves of her shimmering robe. As she withdrew it, the wound knitted together as though it were nothing. She simply withdrew, and the skin closed up, leaving her palm whole and unblemished except for a few wet drops of crimson red. For the first time, when you looked at her, Ianthe gleamed red with thanergy.
“Hold out your hand,” she commanded.
You did, despite knowing full well what was to happen — you did it without hesitation, as she had done it without hesitation. Ianthe held your hand gently and thrust the blade into your palm.
Every fibre in your being bent toward not throwing up. The tendons in your palm snapped, the steel hit metacarpal, chips of bone went flying into the muscle bed and your blood sprayed across your face. Your world was racked in pain.
She pulled the blade clear. This was also agony. Now you understood the object lesson: there was no sewing-up for you. Your meat was left ripped, bare and vulnerable, a gaping, hole in your hand, your skin a pitiful bloodied mess of shredded skin. You grasped the wrist she was also grasping with your free hand; you poured thalergy in it and stitched it up, flicking free chips of bone and welding muscle back together. Your left your palm as whole as it was before, but unlike Ianthe, it took effort and thought and left your nerves screaming with the memory of pain.
“Harrow,” said Ianthe gently, “don’t fuck with me. I’m not here for your amusement either.”
She turned away from you and walked toward the door. Your mouth was dry, your head was swimming. You steadied yourself enough to say, “Is your cavalier a forbidden subject, then?”
Her hand stilled at the pad of the autodoor, standing by the hanging that showed the First House picked out in white thread. “Babs?” she said. “I don’t care about Babs. Just don’t suggest my sister is dead to me, ever again.”
She touched the pad beside the door and crossed the opened threshold.
The door closed behind her, leaving you alone with the knowledge that in some way your transition had failed; you suspected you would never become complete.]
[there was no goading wrath just really likes talking about their brother wow
there is a LOT to take in there, and wrath sort of just wheezes for a second and falls back against whatever flat surface there is. a long, long pause, and then:]
You - you're a Lich? [they know it wasn't lich, it was something else, but they're trying to make sense of what they saw with absolutely no context. a girl, with a sister, a letter, cavaliers...]
[Yes, she absolutely is, although she doesn't know that word, and corrects - ] Lyctor. And. . . to some degree. As you saw, the process in my case was something of a failure. [She doesn't sound ashamed of this, just tired.] I have access to the well of power, and likely to the myriad long lifespan, but not the other aspects. A true Lyctor will heal any injury automatically, without thought, and can leave their body behind to enter the River, guarded by the ghost of their cavalier - and will borrow their cavalier's fighting prowess as well.
Uh - kind of all of the above? Definitely undead. Maybe immortal, I haven't, uh, considered that far ahead, actually? And if by battery you mean my memories are the only thing that make me not feral, then yes! Battery powered, for sure.
[they reach up to rub at their face with both hands.]
Hah. How's that for narrative parallels - you have a spotty memory and I have had a wild ride of a time getting people to remember I exist at all. The Lich and the Lyctor.
it's not a good dark, either. it's a horrifying, endless sort of abyss, and you spend long bouts of time being unable to see, and then being unable to hear, and then being unable to touch, and then all three, and then finally, you pull yourself together enough to hear a voice, outside.
Here you go. I’ll just make these sort of… taste better.
and you wake up, fully, you pull yourself together enough to cast yourself out, to see what the world looks like around you, because that is your brother's voice, and he's going to cast something, but you're going to intercept. so you do. he'll know, this time, he'll know where you are if you can just give him a sign. you hear his startled noise when you take control of the umbrella, and it takes every single bit of energy you have to trace three, simple letters into the wall with scorching ray.
your brother speaks. Why? What does that—what is... static. white noise.
he doesn't... he doesn't know. he doesn't know who you are? why doesn't...
[She processes this memory, a little blankly, uncertain how to feel about it. But deep down, there is a part of her that feels - strangely about this. That feels as though there can't be anything in the universe so goddamn shitty as being some kind of locked away, forgotten fragment of a person, the only thing left of you being how bad you want to reach out and protect the person you love, but they've slammed the door shut on you and rolled a rock over you and there's nothing you can do about it but keep clawing and scratching in the darkness. It's not even really horror at Wrath's situation that she feels, but anger. She just sort of wants to slam a fist in Wrath's twink brother's no-doubt smug wizardly face.
But she can't really understand why she would feel this way, why this situation would trouble her so much, what she has in common with it besides, as Wrath said, being a lich and a Lyctor, forgotten and forgetting. It is terribly sad. It is. There's just no reason she ought to connect with it.]
I've never had a sibling, or even. . . really anyone I was afraid to lose. [She grew up so alone, not even any other children her age around her.] I'm not sure how to -
It's okay. [they say, gently, reaching to pat her hand. they telegraph it very clearly, as usual.]
Sorry works. It's not your - you know, your responsibility? You have much bigger things to worry about than some girl's dumb wizard brother.
I appreciate it, though. Really. Kind of a double-edged sword, right? Like, on the one hand, you never had anybody you were afraid to lose, but on the other, you never had anybody you were afraid to lose.
[... you know, except for the people harrow may not remember, wrath is unclear on that one, but listen.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
2/2
You swung your legs off the hospital cot and stood before her, considering, and you reached out to cup Ianthe’s face in your hands. When you tilted her jaw up to you her skin was discoloured under your skin. You found your mouth and eyes screwing up, but the vile course of action was obvious. You leant down and kissed her squarely on the mouth. This, at least, she hadn’t expected, and her mouth froze against yours, which gave you time to work. Ianthe was a black hole to you, unreadable; but close physical proximity could help. New bone always gave itself away. The lining of her cells was in keeping with old bone. When you pressed the tip of your tongue to her tongue she made a half-wounded sound—she was probably trying to call for help —but although the lingual muscle was not your area of specialty, you could probe through flesh the signs that her foramen bone was whole, unscarred by a fresh rip of the tongue from the mouth. You were safe.
You withdrew, finally, your mouth from her mouth. Ianthe was left, lips slightly parted, eyebrows raised.
“I pledge myself again to the service of Ianthe Tridentarius, Princess of Ida, daughter of the Third House,” you said. “I swear again to honour any previous agreements I made to her. I swear by my mother; by the salt water; by that which lies dead and unbreathing in the Tomb; by the ripped and remade soul of Ortus Nigenad.”
“Who?” she said. “Oh, yes — the cavalier.”
Ianthe wiped the pad of her thumb over her lips. “Well,” she said eventually, “that constitutes some improvement over your sewing my lips shut, like you did the … no, pardon me, I agreed not to mention incidental detail. All I shall say is that for a House that trades solely in bone, you own some enormous needles. I accept your fealty again, Ninth House, and can only assume that you have now read the agreement.”
You sat back down on the bed and placed your hand on the sword. “You have wrung a great deal of blood from what seems to be a very littlestone,” you said.
“I gave you something you cared about very deeply at the time,” she said, idly swinging one leg to perch over one knee. “I don’t consider my price all that high … and neither did you. What’s more, now we are about to embark on what promises to be a truly beautiful friendship, with me the lone fruitful thing in your salted field, et cetera, so I’ll thank you to not embark on the I have been hard done by act.”
Your fingers pressed down hard on the wide breadth of steel. The thundering in your ears was a patchwork of sound and adrenaline, and your heart was sore. “The pledge did not condone disrespect,” you said. “I will not suffer insult. I am the Reverend Daughter. I am a Lyctor. I am in your debt, but I am not here for your amusement.”
“Not in that thing you’re not, certainly,” said Ianthe, whose lip was curling. “You look like a huge peppermint. Here, take this.”
Ianthe reached under her chair and handed you a bundle of robes in the same mother-of-pearl colours of hers. The color did not become you, but it was covering and hugely preferable to your hospital gown. You pulled the hood deep over your head and did not bother to hide your sigh of relief.
You flicked through the stack of envelopes, and could not help scanning the requirements. Some of them were plain and stark. To open in the event of Ianthe’s death. To open if the Ninth House is in mortal danger. Some of them were opaque to the point of madness. To open if your eyes change. If met, to give to Camilla Hect. You wondered, mystified, if you had ever known the last name of Camilla the Sixth, a woman you could not recall interacting with at any point.
“I will remain in possession of the last two,” said Ianthe, having risen to stand. “I will tell you openly that there’s one I get to open in case you die, which is fun.”
You flipped through. Your eyes fell on: To open if you meet Coronabeth Tridentarius. This was different from the other envelopes in that it was not written in cipher. Ianthe’s eyes fell on it too.
“You wrote that one in front of me,” she said. “I can summarise the contents … you are now pledged to me and by extension to Coronabeth, and I tell you for free that one of the riders is that you will never harm a hair on my sister’s head.”
“Your sister is likely no longer alive,” you said, seeing no reason not to say it.
She threw back her head and laughed outright. “Corona!” she said, when she was done. “My sweet baby Corona is far too stupid to die — she’d walk backward out of the River swearing blind she was going in the right direction. I will tell you when my sister is dead, thank you, Harrowhark — and that day is not today.”
Your head was swimming. In a way, you were relieved. You resented being part of your own master plan, as you resented any peremptory order and attempt to keep things secret from you, but you could follow your own commands if the alternative was madness.
“If it is all the same to you, I would like to be alone now,” you said. “I have a great deal to think about.”
Ianthe said, “How politely expressed!”
She drew her skirts around her and curtseyed to you. When she looked up at you, you saw her eyes had changed yet again. They were both lavender now, but freckled with light brown like a constellation.
You said, because again you could see no reason not to: “You should have disciplined Tern better, if he’s still fighting you this way.”
Ianthe considered this. She took out from her robes a long knife. It was—though you weren’t sure how you recognized it — Tern’s trident knife.
She placed her palm before you, outstretched. Without a moment’s hesitation, or sign of pain, or even much give, she thrust the knife through the meat of her palm. It must have done enormous damage, and drops of blood splattered the sleeves of her shimmering robe. As she withdrew it, the wound knitted together as though it were nothing. She simply withdrew, and the skin closed up, leaving her palm whole and unblemished except for a few wet drops of crimson red. For the first time, when you looked at her, Ianthe gleamed red with thanergy.
“Hold out your hand,” she commanded.
You did, despite knowing full well what was to happen — you did it without hesitation, as she had done it without hesitation. Ianthe held your hand gently and thrust the blade into your palm.
Every fibre in your being bent toward not throwing up. The tendons in your palm snapped, the steel hit metacarpal, chips of bone went flying into the muscle bed and your blood sprayed across your face. Your world was racked in pain.
She pulled the blade clear. This was also agony. Now you understood the object lesson: there was no sewing-up for you. Your meat was left ripped, bare and vulnerable, a gaping, hole in your hand, your skin a pitiful bloodied mess of shredded skin. You grasped the wrist she was also grasping with your free hand; you poured thalergy in it and stitched it up, flicking free chips of bone and welding muscle back together. Your left your palm as whole as it was before, but unlike Ianthe, it took effort and thought and left your nerves screaming with the memory of pain.
“Harrow,” said Ianthe gently, “don’t fuck with me. I’m not here for your amusement either.”
She turned away from you and walked toward the door. Your mouth was dry, your head was swimming. You steadied yourself enough to say, “Is your cavalier a forbidden subject, then?”
Her hand stilled at the pad of the autodoor, standing by the hanging that showed the First House picked out in white thread. “Babs?” she said. “I don’t care about Babs. Just don’t suggest my sister is dead to me, ever again.”
She touched the pad beside the door and crossed the opened threshold.
The door closed behind her, leaving you alone with the knowledge that in some way your transition had failed; you suspected you would never become complete.]
no subject
there is a LOT to take in there, and wrath sort of just wheezes for a second and falls back against whatever flat surface there is. a long, long pause, and then:]
You - you're a Lich? [they know it wasn't lich, it was something else, but they're trying to make sense of what they saw with absolutely no context. a girl, with a sister, a letter, cavaliers...]
no subject
no subject
[they rub at their face.]
Uh - same hat? Sort of? I don't have the instant healing, that'd be rad. But... we're more similar than you'd think.
no subject
Oh. Undead? Immortal? Battery powered? [By 'battery' she just means some other external source of power - in a Lyctor's case, another person's soul.]
no subject
Uh - kind of all of the above? Definitely undead. Maybe immortal, I haven't, uh, considered that far ahead, actually? And if by battery you mean my memories are the only thing that make me not feral, then yes! Battery powered, for sure.
no subject
[That's not how it works for her, but. . . ]
The older ones often start to go mad, over time. [So, maybe memories are important.]
no subject
[they reach up to rub at their face with both hands.]
Hah. How's that for narrative parallels - you have a spotty memory and I have had a wild ride of a time getting people to remember I exist at all. The Lich and the Lyctor.
no subject
no subject
it's not a good dark, either. it's a horrifying, endless sort of abyss, and you spend long bouts of time being unable to see, and then being unable to hear, and then being unable to touch, and then all three, and then finally, you pull yourself together enough to hear a voice, outside.
Here you go. I’ll just make these sort of… taste better.
and you wake up, fully, you pull yourself together enough to cast yourself out, to see what the world looks like around you, because that is your brother's voice, and he's going to cast something, but you're going to intercept. so you do. he'll know, this time, he'll know where you are if you can just give him a sign. you hear his startled noise when you take control of the umbrella, and it takes every single bit of energy you have to trace three, simple letters into the wall with scorching ray.
your brother speaks. Why? What does that—what is... static. white noise.
he doesn't... he doesn't know. he doesn't know who you are? why doesn't...
and the memory ends.]
no subject
But she can't really understand why she would feel this way, why this situation would trouble her so much, what she has in common with it besides, as Wrath said, being a lich and a Lyctor, forgotten and forgetting. It is terribly sad. It is. There's just no reason she ought to connect with it.]
. . . What made him forget?
no subject
they're quiet for a moment, and then they shrug.]
You know, I don't actually know. I have my suspicions, but they're just that. Suspicions.
no subject
[The words are hard to explain, somehow.]
I've never had a sibling, or even. . . really anyone I was afraid to lose. [She grew up so alone, not even any other children her age around her.] I'm not sure how to -
no subject
Sorry works. It's not your - you know, your responsibility? You have much bigger things to worry about than some girl's dumb wizard brother.
I appreciate it, though. Really. Kind of a double-edged sword, right? Like, on the one hand, you never had anybody you were afraid to lose, but on the other, you never had anybody you were afraid to lose.
[... you know, except for the people harrow may not remember, wrath is unclear on that one, but listen.]
no subject
. . . Exactly. It's different now, which is more difficult and easier at the same time.
no subject
It's okay to have that, though. People you're afraid to lose.
no subject
no subject
... I guess you just have to decide which is more important to you. The people you love, or a goal so important you agreed to come here to get it.