They were both born on the third day of the seventh month when the Blood-Red Moon had eclipsed the Second Sun.

She had encountered Joohyun once, as a toddler wandering through the gentle plains of Yvir. There had been a young girl sitting by the lake, dainty fingers coming through silky black hair and stardust on her dress. She is the prettiest thing Seulgi has ever seen, prettier than the field of lilies she sits among, and Seulgi draws closer and closer to look. Ten paces away and the girl feels her presence, pausing briefly before she straightens and turns primly towards her.

“Can I help you—Oh?” Her eyes glow too bright, and with a gasp, Seulgi instinctively shuts her eyes tight, faltering. She feels herself hit the ground with a thump, hears the soft rustle of grass and footsteps as she rubs at the sunspots left imprinted in her vision, everything numb. “Are you alright?” A voice murmurs, melodic, and when the spots finally begin to fade Seulgi cautiously opens her eyes to meet pure white ones, irises still pulsating with a gentle glow.

The girl’s expression is one of careful concern, fingers in the space between them like she wants to touch Seulgi, but doesn’t. “Did I hurt you?”

“M’fine,” She mumbles, then grimaces. Her left ankle aches dearly. Not like the stab of prickly nettles nor the piercing fangs of a fierce Mrnir — Something deeper than flesh. Bone. She wonders if she will be the newest inpatient at the nursery. “Maybe not.”

“Here,” The older girl soothes, fingers grazing skin, and Seulgi inhales again at the strange sensation of what she can only describe as light, everlasting. Rays of golden sun push through her skin, reaching deep and to push and pull at clay, knitting the strings back to make her whole. She wonders, briefly, if she had accidentally stumbled into an archangel but knows they do not exist.

“All better,” The girl says when all is said and done, Seulgi’s ankle is nothing but a tender pink. There is a soft smile on her face and it makes her look twice as pretty. She taps Seulgi’s ankle twice, then stands and offers her a hand. “Will you be able to get back safely?”

“Who are you?” Seulgi asks instead, then blushes. The question had crawled up without permission. “Sorry, yes, thank you. But who are you?”

“Me?” Eyebrows rise dramatically, the girl caught off-guard. Her head tilts back and silky black hair shifts to flow off her shoulder, revealing a small pink flower behind her ear. A peony, Seulgi recognises from stories with her moon mother. “O-Oh. My name is—“

Around her 53rd cycle by the Seventh Star, a minor conflict breaks out on Perlepolis between the Morgadore and Loric. She is sent to document it.

“By the Gods,” Seulgi murmurs. Charcoal twirling between fingers and blouse stained ashen. The fields are shades of grey, the dead and dying blood red. If it had been their people the field would be stained gold with ichor.

The air reeks of sulfur and every nerve tells her to run. She is built for the flowers and the night sky, for a joyous choir and the solemn moon, for life and not death. But a proper journalist has to catalogue both, and even though each step repulses her to the core she grimaces and takes another.

Yet within the stench of death there is a waft of sweetness. Lavender and power. It makes her head turn with the thought of something familiar, like a memory in the back of her mind that is barely out of reach. It spirals around her and beckons, and like a moth she is helpless but to follow.

In a secluded corner of the settlement, within the debris of cloth and stone and a home, a woman sits and glows. Cradled in her arms is a young Lorien, barely conscious and oozing as he grapples with an invisible foe.

This is…

“Are you content?” The same melodic voice asks, throwing her back to an encounter centuries ago with a God. The woman looks up at her now, skin with that same radiant glow and eyes alight, and there is a soft inquisitiveness to her manner. “Do you not feel for them? Do you cry?”

“I do.” She replies, thinking of the Wyvern she had seen burst into flame. A baby Mooncalf gasping for air. “I do but it is forbidden. I cannot weep.” And then, because she needs to know. “Who are you?”

“Me?” The woman tilts her head, blinking. Her hair parts to reveal a small, pink peony tucked behind her ear. “My name is Irene, and I am the only child of the Third Constellation by the Azure Moon.”The Lorien in her arms whimpers and she coos and draws him closer, soothing until he is yet again asleep. The wound on his head sews itself closed. “And you are?”

“Seulgi. Daughter of Artemis. Second Ram of the East.” Nervous, she fiddles with the piece of charcoal in her fingers. “I am sorry, Irene. I cannot help them.”

“So it seems.” Irene agrees, tinged bittersweet, one hand shifting to her cheek. “I understand. It was nice to meet you, Seulgi.”

“As with you.” A polite incline of her head, and they both prepare for her to leave. She makes little distance before stopping. her traitorous mind draws her back yet to Irene, so calm and serene, a beacon of serenity among ravaged earth, and she is beautiful.

A brief circle around the vicinity and she is back, face red and bashful as the other woman looks up with surprise. Her decision was made the moment she stepped close. “Forgive me, I must ask. May I draw you?”

“Draw…me? For… your records?” She nods. Irene’s confusion only grows, brows furrowing. The Lorien in her care has disappeared, and only the stains of his blood on her shift remain. “Is it not so that your archive must remain impartial?”

“That is true,” Seulgi acquiesces. She motions a quick piece of parchment from air, thumb running over the smooth material as it flutters into her hands. She ducks shyly, certain her complexion must be beet red. “But I would like to draw you for a record of my own.”

“Oh.” Confusion dawns slowly into understanding. “Oh. Oh! You…” It is her turn for her cheeks to tinge red, and Seulgi feels the corners of her lips curve up in endearment. “…You may, if you’d like?”

The smile comes out in full force then, the one that her birth mother had said reminded her of daisies, and the expression seems to qualm any of Irene’s unease. a quick bow of thanks and she is back to work, settling cross-legged on raw earth and the vestiges of her sketch flurrying quickly across her page. occasionally Seulgi peers at a certain detail that is too out of focus, squinting, and she hears Irene let out a soft breath of laughter. Irene seems relatively friendly, patient in the way she dawdles and makes small talk. Seulgi asks her a myriad of questions— “how old are you?”, “What is your nature?” and amusing ones, like “what is your favorite color?”, “your favorite creature?”, “you don’t like creatures? I adore foals.”

By sunset it feels like they are cautiously toeing the line between strangers and friends. The acrid tang of blood has fallen away, the smell of upcoming rain taking its place. Irene’s shift is now spotless, the earth around her almost lively. It must be a cruel dichotomy, to be both gifted and a seer, powerful and powerless, yet not once had Irene complained.

By dawn they are both slick with rain, walking quietly across grey plains, and Irene has weaved out of death a perfect crown of thorns.

“Here,” she murmurs, tip-toeing quite adorably to lay it on Seulgi’s head. “As thanks.”

“What for?” she adjusts the scrolls underneath one arm, the other reaching up to scratch at the back of her neck. “I have only taken up more time.”

“i enjoyed your company,” Irene tilts her head again, inquisitive. The rising sun forms a halo around her frame. “Is that not reason enough?”

“I suppose it is.” They are running out of time. The all father requires her back by mid-day. She can feel her presence dissipating. “Were you on Valerth six decades ago?”

“Possibly.” Irene nods. “We would spend a lunar cycle there with the moon mother. I liked sitting by the lakeside.”

Oh. “Do you think we will meet again?”

“If fate deems it so.” Fingers reach out to hold. Their hands meet in the middle, Irene’s touch as steadfast as hers is ghostly. “But I should hope so, Seulgi.”

A soft smile, a gleam of light, and she is home.

“Welcome back,” Joy lounges casually in their hearth, fiddling with the photobox strapped to her chest. “How was Perlepolis and Saturn?”

“Saturn was alright.” Exhausted, she flops down on soft carpet, unbothered by the dirt and grime on her clothes. “Perlepolis was dreary. So much death. Like Erzath itself paid them a visit.”

“That bad?” Joy peers at her, sympathetic. “Sorry. They needed me on Ennuna for a cycle longer.”

“You were probably playing with the calves.” With a lazy finger she draws out her parchment, ignoring Joy’s grunt of indignance in favor of thumbing through her sketches. “You owe me for that one. And two sticks of charcoal.”

“The drawbacks of archival instead of imprinting. So behind the times.” Joy tosses her head dramatically. Then, “Still. I heard you arrived at Saturn late. Wendy sent a messenger. She was pissed.”

“Oh.” she pauses. The current sketch she holds is the one of the battlefield at Perlepolis, the grass dotted with red roses. The one underneath is of Irene. “Yes. There was a gifted seer by the northern village, and I kept her company for a little while.”

“A gifted seer?” The younger journalist moves to sit next to her, perusing the sketches Seulgi had already filtered. “Is that possible? How does one observe impartially with a gift?”

“I am unsure as well,” She looks to Joy, now eyeing her with curiosity. “It is strange that a gifted was appointed a seer. I was thinking of consulting the elders, or Wendy when I return to llegobos.”

“If anyone knew the intricacies of the system, it would be her.” Joy nods, lying back on her palms. Briefly, Seulgi recognizes the differences between them. Joy had been molded to a time period one step after hers, and her youthfulness shows in her style and slang. “When is your next trip?”

“Probably in a cycle or two, with you up in Icthar.” Gingerly, she folds the parchment of Irene into quarters and tucks it into her back pocket. Stretching, she stands. “Want to travel with me before then?”

“Oh, finally.” Joy tips her head back. “By the gods, yes. Finally.”

“You say that like we haven’t journeyed together in years,” Seulgi’s eyes crinkle, and she moves to tease the younger woman. “Do you miss me that much?”

“Only a little bit.” Joy relents, grabbing her arms to stop the assault. “I just miss the free trips. and have a bath before we leave. You reek.”

She is standing in a pantheon of crystal clear water, and someone is holding her hand. Before them is a large table filled with food picked from the corners of the galaxy.

Eat. She tries to turn to look at her companion, but their face is obscured in fog. Eat, the voice says again, and she finds herself looking at the table. She takes the first piece that catches her eye, a smooth and shiny red apple, and takes a bite.

Funnily enough, their next meeting is in Yvir.

Cycle 122 now, and she is taking a brief pause on Valerth. her last assignment had been Valamar and the vices of wrath and greed had been so tight on the planet her documentation had nearly swallowed her whole, smothered in perfumed smoke. Requesting a temporary position by the nursery had been surprisingly difficult, the senior archivists reluctant to let their best talent go, but it had been done with the promise of made-up time and a renewed vigor. Her days consist of wandering by the lake and teaching the younglings, and occasionally she doodles or walks to town for a meal.

It is on one of these walks that she returns to the nursery and sees her. Irene stands out like no other, even more so due to her strange mix of birthright and nature, and among the small group of newcomers no gifted moves with as much grace as she.

“Irene?” She walks up, cautiously, and even then the other girl still startles when she turns. She is now dressed in modern wear, white sweater slipped off one shoulder to reveal smooth skin, and in this muted form her eyes are a very faint lavender. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Seulgi,” Irene greets in return, smiling softly around the edges. Eyes dart down in a quick once-over. “So it is. Hello. Are you consigned here?”

“For now,” She cannot resist a smile of her own. “I have half a cycle before I return. and you?”
“I will be here for two.” Irene purses her lips. “The moon mother wants us close. A collection of me and my cousins by the nursery. Not a clue why.”

“I see.” That is indeed, as Joy would put it, weird. “Have there been any extinctions lately? uprisings by Ivemia?”

“Not that I recall.” Irene sighs. “And not that they would tell us. But I am used to it, the moving.”

“The moving?” Wendy had mentioned something similar long ago. “Because you are a seer or because you are chosen?”

The chosen, Wendy had explained, are a very specific group of gifted granted the strange privilege of contradiction. anarchists that cultivate, or artists who cannot see. She herself had only met one other in person, an oceaneer who could not swim back in Daedamus with Joy, and instead of scouring the seas he had simply conjured islands to walk on. There is no historical significance to their existence or any additional purpose, simply a cosmic pull of fate.

“Both,” Familiar, slender fingers circle gently around her wrist, and the sensation travels up her shoulders and down her spine. “But it is of no matter. I do not mind.”

Seulgi giggles. It is not uncommon for them to have varying dialects and tones, picked throughout space and time, and Irenes’ is certainly distinct. “You speak like the elders do.”

“Do I really?”

They spend the evening walking by the lake, past the willow tree and the orchid field. Seulgi shows her where she and her siblings had played, so close yet so far away, and they wander around the hedge gardens in bloom.

When they walk past the field of lilies, Irene tugs at her arm, pausing. She stares into the distance, the lake not far from view.

“This was the farthest I used to go.” She hums. “I wonder if we would have met if I had gone further.“

“Maybe so.” Lilies and humming and broken bone. “I was here once or twice. Wandering around aimlessly, to see.”

“A journalist from the start.” Irene remarks. She turns.

They sit by the lobby and talk over sweet cakes. They move to Seulgi’s temporary quarters and Seulgi moves through her sketches, from those rejected from the archives to her personal collection of pictures. They even move through her closet, a small but mixed array of favorite pieces she wears out in the field and on trips.

“It’s not much.” she can feel the heat returning to her face again. Irene has picked out the exact blouse she had been wearing when they met, now a little more frayed. “I was going to pick up new ones from llegobos when they wear out.”

“I see.” Irene chuckles. “Before these poor garments are skin and bone, I hope. I know a tailor that could make these glimmer.”

“Oh, please no.” Seulgi covers her face. “I'd rather not look like an apostle of earth. Regular fabric is fine.”

“Fortunately, I agree.” Irene spins around, handing the blouse over to her, and after a brief pause she looks up. “You look... very wonderful as you are anyway, I suppose.”

She tries to teach Irene how to draw but it is a partially lost cause, the latter quite proficient in doodles of flora but lacking in fauna and portraiture the ability to sketch… Anything, really.

“It looks like a table with wings,” Irene mutters, clearly frustrated at her own ineptitude, and Seulgi chuckles by her side. “I see now why they made me a seer. The moon mother must have screamed in horror.”

“Well, you are an excellent seer.” Seulgi puts down her own ink and quill, satisfied with the stylized drawing of a Hraesvelgr soaring about to take flight. In a moment of courage, she leans forward and over into Irene, gesturing to her parchment. “If you added a little more mass here and here,” She shifts to point more accurately, now firmly in Irene’s space, delighting in her soft inhale and the smell of lavender. She draws away, giving the both of them space. “You can still save it. it’ll look like it’s hesitating instead of standing still, and you could add more context like prey.”

“You lost me at the stances.” Irene sighs, her exasperation exaggerated for show. “I resign from archiving and would like to transfer.”

Seulgi smiles. “To where?”

“Out.” Irene leans her head on the table, eyes closed.

“And leave me?”

A pause. One eye opens to squint. “And why would I stay for you?”

They fool around a little more, doodling and talking and making jokes (What if we had both been in the same department? That would have been nice.) But it is getting dark and by sunrise, they will have to go about different responsibilities.

“I'll come find you when I can,” Seulgi stands by the entrance of the room Irene shares with a few cousins, in a separate building sixty paces away from the nursery. “Since you’ll mostly be around the children.”

“Good idea.” Irene leans against the open door, soft and gentle and glowing again. “I might hold you to that.”

Their schedules do not match well after that, Seulgi busy with the teaching and management while Irene helps out in the nursery with newborns and inpatients in the wards. They meet for meals or quick conversation and, just once, another walk around Yvir. Once or twice when she is doing her rounds she spots Irene engrossed in work, body moving with an effortless grace. In one quick motion she conjures up sapling trees or tends to the fauna, the ground shifting with her feet.

On the last day before her return to Daedamus, they have dinner and Seulgi walks her back to her accommodations. Because she feels like it, she kneels and picks up Irene’s hand to press a gentle kiss to the back of her palm. “Safe travels, Irene.”

When she looks up Irene is frozen in place, mouth a small and subtle “O”, and that otherworldly shine from when Seulgi was young threatens to burst again from her eyes.

“You are something else.” Joohyun laughs, and her eyes flash with a soft kind of happiness.

“I am,” Seulgi teases, one of those gentle smiles that always threaten to appear around Irene making its way out again. “Mystery for another day. Sleep well, Irene.”

“Yes, goodnight.” Another soft pause. Suddenly there are hands and lips on her cheek that are gone as quickly as they were there. Irene lingers by the door, smiling at the way Seulgi stands dazed and unmoving. “Goodbye, Seulgi.”

Smoke billowing from earth. so much blood. The rising sun cannot wash away her weariness.

A Carrionite gasps for breath, its guts lying several feet away. It does not snarl when she approaches, and whimpers when she rests its head in her lap.

“So…Irene, wasn’t it?” Joy smirks at her when she returns, parting from their welcome back hug. She swipes at a red spot on her cheek. “Go get her, tiger. Finally, some romance.”

Seulgi scoffs, extricating herself from their embrace. “Not a word,” She holds out a finger. “Until I have good coffee and a bath. and you seem to have forgotten about Yeri.”

“Yerim is just a friend.” Joy rolls her eyes, pulling at her sundress. This time, she is leaning against their counter, a small bag slung off one shoulder. she must be bringing a smaller device this time. “Check back in fifty cycles or so and when I’m back. You, on the other hand, haven’t had a partner in years.”

“You are essentially my partner, anyway,” Seulgi mutters. She moves to rummage through their bookshelves, scanning for one particular title. “Would you be interested in attending sword fighting classes with me?”

“Not in particular. my hands suit me just fine.”

“You will not stop a sword with your hands.” Ah-ha. Galatean Tales From the East.

“And you an arrow with your cutlass.” Heels click across tile and stop. softly, Joy calls. “Never change, Seulgi.”

She turns to see the younger woman looking back at her, hand on their shared doorframe. “I don't intend to.”

They share a smile, and she is gone.

In Galatean Tales From the East, a small nation of traders band with long-time enemies, and together they overthrow the gods. They create unearthly mixtures and dip into dark magic for their victory, the act spun into tales of bravery and heroism.

Another wyvern speared through the heart. Its wings have been clipped for potions and eyes gouged out for elixirs.

Seulgi tries to capture the image well.

—

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“Oh, hello.” Irene looks up at her from where she sits by the entrance of the temple, the steps a gleaming bronze. This time, she holds a vase of daisies in her hands. She smiles, and Seulgi makes a note to get more coloured charcoal from llegobos. “Come to offer your thanks to mother?”

“Not quite.” Seulgi touches the back of her neck. Everything in Ivemia is unfamiliar. “The archives have been getting darker every cycle. The elders fear the worst. I came to pray.”

“So it is true, then.” Irene sighs. She plucks delicately at her daisies, turning them this way and that. “The scales must be tilting. The balance has been upset.”

“Do you think an extinction will happen soon?”

“It must.” Seulgi shivers at the words. ”The world must be reset for the sake of peace. We will have to take action.”

“Does it not scare you?” She thinks of everything she has seen, of everything their race must have been through. Thousands of millennia of life and death. “That they will always come for us, and we will always die?”

“A little.” Irene bites her lip. “The fields of Perlepolis… The Saturn sky. The river Thalatus. destruction uncomprehending. But there is comfort in that inevitability, is there not? The cycle of time.”

“Immoral and true,” Seulgi echoes. Her eyes dart down to Irene’s lips, a lovely shade of red. She would like to touch them, feel their softness for herself. “And so it must be.”

“Are you afraid?” Irene asks. she closes her eyes, opening them to find Irene inches away. There is a soft palm resting on her shoulder. “Of leaving? And being left behind?”

“I wouldn't like to think so.” Seulgi admits. She takes a breath, and covers Irene’s hand with her own. “But there are things that I have to– that I would like to accomplish. Deeds I would like to achieve. Regret does not suit me.”

“Neither does dreariness.” Irene turns her hand up, moving their fingers to lay on her chest. “Or sorrow, or grief. Yet with happiness and hope they intertwine. Never one without the other.”

“So it seems,” Seulgi says. Then, she remembers the small notebook stuffed into her pocket. a little collection of the skyline from every planet she had been to since they had last met. ”They say the battles never last too long.”

“We always triumph in the end,” Irene agrees. “But not without a cost.”

They spend some time together, talking about everything and nothing, and when it is time to go Seulgi leans down and kisses her softly on the cheek.

“You are beautiful,” This is the first time she has said it to her face, and Irene visibly softens with an emotion she is beginning to understand as affection.

“So are you,” Irene cups her cheek, her eyes alight. Her smile will always be beautiful. “See you around.”

In the evening, she dreams of devils. Blood rises into and spills out of . instead of gold it is red.

Irene comes to mid-day in the seventh month of cycle 273. in front of her lies Seulgi, unmoving, spear impaled through her back and into her lungs.

“Oh, god.” rivulets of ichor find their way through the earth. She moves to do something, anything, falling to her knees. “Oh, no. Seulgi.”

“Seulgi, dear god. Seulgi.” Carefully, she maneuvers around the spear to cradle the woman. The same feeling of grief swells to the surface, a thousand times stronger than the tides of yesteryear. The sky crackles and splits into two, the air charged with rain. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. she wants to scream. “Your story cannot end. You have to return.”

Something pierces her flesh but it does not hurt, only tickles. Someone gasps in surprise yet she pays them no mind, focused only on the dying woman in her arms. She closes her eyes and envisions a sunrise, smooth cloth and flower fields and pleasant scents.

droplets caress her skin. The growing clamor around her is barely audible. She feels her hands glow hot, pushes harder and pictures the peaks of Xanadu, the endless depths of Illiath and the call of a phoenix. A mooncalf braying for its mother. A muffalo desperate for life, kicking at a mrnanger with vibrant fur stained crimson.

A piercing scream and a whirlwind of light. A brief moment of agony before the world returns to focus, ringing in her ears.

She opens her eyes and the world around them has frozen in place.

An extinction starts in the beginning of cycle 273.

Malavar, then Jupiter, and even Persepolis. The races are tired of partial observers and Gods, and they long to take that power for themselves. The revolt is quick and effective. It starts with a surprise ambush in Ivemia. Rather unsurprisingly, there is no word from Irene in the aftermath.

It was a planned attack on their people, more vicious and well-plotted than the last. The chosen had been moving from area to area for this very reason, and yet still they were captured. The messengers know all too little, having left from the capital in such a hurry, and nobody knows if they can be saved.

It is not a choice. Rather stupidly and against the wishes of her companions, she immediately elects to join the fight. Wendy wishes her well in her bid to quell their tormented brothers and sisters through a long and sentimental letter, and Joy simply raises her eyebrow and tells her to be back in three cycles before Seulgi is killed by Joy herself.

The first few fights are tame. The casualties are low and morale is high. She is hardly a stranger to war and combat, having had to fight off a few hostile encounters and document countless more, yet standing in the epicentre feels akin to almost being struck by lightning. Word spreads that the chosen can indeed be quelled – Only by friends and loved ones who can get through to them, but a chance nonetheless – And Seulgi had never been religious but she does wake before dawn at the beginning of each month to hope.

On the sixth day of the second month of battle, it happens. A fairly routine scour over the area, another square in their grid of territory to secure, and within the lush jungle a horde of Mogadorians wait. hours later and the battle is dwindling down and their forces are weak, both tired from fighting, and still she stays behind. There are no frenzied chosen in the area so far but she must search, just to be thorough, with a small squad that remains to sweep the area.

A Lorien runs at her and she teleports behind him with ease, a swift strike enough to bring him down. a bigger, more powerful Mogadorian charges at her at full speed, and she narrowly reacts just quick enough to move out of the way as it forges on ahead mindlessly through the trees.

She is still catching her breath when a spear sinks solidly into her back thrown so hard it makes her stumble and fall.

“Oh,” She murmurs, and falls to her knees. She tries to turn and see where it came from and only sees fellow fighters driving off the forces, her vicinity safe for now. okay. That's good. Joy would be mad if some random Lorien had killed her and ed off to nowhere.

Something seeps into her clothes, and when she raises a trembling hand to feel at it it comes away stained gold. Perhaps the healers will be here soon.

A soft cry, and then a wail and a scream.. She hears thunder in the distance and knows a chosen must be near. Seulgi chuckles and debates drawing out some parchment. Maybe it would do her good to spend the last moments of her life documenting this as well.

A flurry of movement and a clash of bodies, and she sees her.

“Joohyun!” She yells, as loud as she can, and from halfway across the battlefield the woman pauses and turns. This time, she is fully alight, so bright and piercing it feels like the sun has collided with Yvir and signaled its end. Something is wrong with her, in the way she turns and shakes and trembles, and it immediately fills her with dread.

“Irene!” She shouts, and this time her intake of breath hurts so she tries again, softer. Briefly, she thinks of the absurdity of the situation, dying among her brethren from her own people, and still she beckons forward death. “Joohyun. Irene.”

“Irene,” She murmurs, and Irene follows. She stands in front of her, lance pressed against and the wind a whirling storm. “Your name is Irene. You are Irene, a seer and my— Friend. You like to heal and you despise having to watch the dead and dying, helpless. Your favorite color is purple. That day in the forest..”

The lance against presses tighter, sharp enough it draws a thin line of blood, Joohyun’s eyes like beams of cruel light, and Seulgi swallows back the metallic tang of ichor in . “We met when I was four. and I forgive you for what you have to do.” She is bleeding so much, and she is so tired. Maybe a little tiredness would be okay. “Thank you, Irene. You are beautiful.”

The last thing she hears is a gasp and the clatter of weapons. She smiles and hits the ground.

She opens her eyes and thinks she must be dead.

The sky is a pretty hue of pink, and little specks of yellow light fade in and out and around her. the floor shifts constantly beneath her feet, festering. Instinctively, she stands and reaches for her chest and then her back, and her fingers find neither wound nor weapon.

The hairs on the back of her neck come to stand, and when she turns there is a young buck with magnificent antlers and a pure white coat. it faces her with eyes that are clouded, unseeing, yet still it contemplates.

“Is this it?” She asks, a little taken aback when her voice echoes around them instead of through her lips. the buck does not react. A gentle breeze ruffles its fur and her hair. Where from? “Where are we?” Am I dead?

The ground beneath them shakes. The buck turns and begins a gentle stroll, head inclined as if to tell her to follow.

The first steps are easy. Fifteen paces in and not so much. Forty and each inch forward feels like trudging through sludge, her body pushing through jelly. By sixty, each step is agony. The buck stops in front of her around step eighty three, turning yet again to look her in the eye.

Are you content? Echoes through her mind, all-consuming. Images surface and disappear like birds taking flight. Stars. Caleban descending from the stars. A wyvern in flight. Mooncalves. Loriens dying under the afternoon sun. Her sketches, bitter and sweet. Do you weep for them? Do you weep for yourself? Are you content? Are you content? Are you content? Are you content?

A woman, bathed in sunlight. Lilies by the river. Starlight on a battlefield. Flowers in her hair.

“Joohyun.” she murmurs, fingers twitching, and the world folds in.

She wakes to a battlefield frozen in time and something on her cheek. Every sensation is tampered down, reduced to a numbness and nothing else.

“Joohyun,” She tries to murmur, hearing nothing. Eyes still snap to her face, alight with pure energy, yet strangely her eyes do not burn nor does she cower. She tries again. “Joohyun. Joohyun.”

“Seulgi,” fingers on her cheek, running through her hair, hand on her heart. Joohyun handles her with so much care. “You know my true name?”

“I do,” The smile she tries for turns more into a grimace. Feeling is returning to her limbs and with it, an ache that blossoms pain. Still, she powers through with her good arm, raising it to tuck at smooth black hair. a peony. “You told me a long time ago. When we were young.”

“By the lakes.” Joohyun murmurs. “In the lily field, month six.”

“You were beautiful then,” Seulgi admits. “And you are beautiful now.”

“Speak for yourself.” Lips press gently against her forehead. They are indeed very soft. “Star-wanderer. brave warrior. Traveller. You came back to me.”

“I will always…“ Pain wracks through her and she coughs and shivers. I will always look for you.

“Rest.” Joohyun soothes, still hovering quietly above her face. “And speak with me in the morning.”

Seulgi wakes to cream-white walls and clean, scented linen.

There are dried flowers in a porcelain vase on a small wooden table. Breeze from the open window tickles her face, smelling faintly of the sea. Her right shoulder aches down and through her chest, phantom weapon still stuck in place though the neat bandages neatly taped to her side tell her otherwise. with a groan she manages to stand, treading quietly through this sacred and unfamiliar place, breath uneven.

Soft humming filters through the adjacent room and the salty fragrance of the sea transitions into something smooth and rich. Joohyun sits by the window of what must be her kitchen, fingers drumming along smooth metal as she looks out at the bay. There is a kettle rumbling about on the stove, puffing little fat clouds of steam.

“Hello.” Left hand to palm at the back of her neck. The action feels strange. “I…”

“Oh, you’re awake.” A short stride later and Joohyun is by her side. She reaches out to touch but hesitates. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too terrible,” Seulgi chuckles, then winces. “Ouch. That hurts.”

“You’re lucky it was your lung that punctured, not your heart.” Brows furrow. is set into a hard line. “It was dangerous to look for me. There are others infinitely stronger than either of us.”

“We are not made for war,” Seulgi agrees. “But I would not have left you for dead.”

“Do I truly mean that much to you?”

“You would have done the same for me.” Impulsively, she reaches for her. Joohyun complies.

“Hah.” Inevitable is the word. Joohyun had been inevitable. They both relax into an embrace. “Smart girl. I've been seduced.”

“Is this okay?” Seulgi wonders aloud, smiling. fingers pinch at her side. “Will the elders kick my for this?”

“Language.” Joohyun mutters. She could get used to the feeling of gentle fingers on her face, warm breath on her cheeks. “And frankly, I could care less.”

Like everything else about her, her kiss is soft and sweet. Seulgi sighs into and Joohyun takes the chance to press forward with her tongue. They both groan.

Bliss.

Back in Daedamus, the impact is nowhere near as severe. The streets clamor with tension but still thrum with life, and when she returns with a small group of warriors heads turn and stare.

“Do you think they stare at my wounds or your glow?” Seulgi picks at the bandage on her arm. Joohyun looks a little uncomfortable beside her, half-hidden behind her form for cover, hand skimming but careful not to touch the small of her back.

“Perhaps a mix of both,” Joohyun acquiesces. She lets long fingers lace with her own. “Or perhaps neither.”

They are quiet on the way back to her quarters, Seulgi taking the time to relax and Joohyun observing the scenery. She watches the way Joohyun takes everything in, eyes widening in awe, and she makes a note for her sketches later.

“Oh, my god.” A flurry of movement and she finds herself with an armful of Joy. “You had me worried sick. The quarters were filling with dust bunnies.”

hmm today I will *writes 6k in 3 days after 3 years* post seulrene :) cross-posted to ao3 here. find me on twitter here. hope this entertained at least somebody. poi au next for me and my scarred brethren. come talk to me about it