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Harrowhark Nonagesimus has watched Gideon Nav since before she can remember.
Her earliest memory is watching Griddle throw a tantrum on the nursery floor during a face painting lesson from the nuns, her bright red hair a stark contrast to the dusty gray of the floor and walls, her screams an assault to the silent halls of the Ninth. This is before she is called Griddle, a nickname that Harrow doesn’t precisely remember how it came about. Gideon had done something that annoyed her, and Harrow—young enough to still have a bit of a speech impediment—had screeched out the wrong syllables, and the flub became Griddle. And it stuck. Well, she’s made it stick, just to spite her nemesis, who, at that age, wasn't quite her nemesis yet.
There has always been a bite to their relationship, but during their youngest years, sequestered in the empty and crumbling nursery with only ancient nuns to keep them company, they are friends of a sort. Or, perhaps companions would be the better word. They have no one else.
It’s Griddle who first turns their relationship antagonistic, Harrow knows that much. She looks up to Griddle, being a whole year older and already tall for her age. She follows her around like a shadow, watching her every move. Even when Griddle yells at and pushes her, she keeps following. Keeps watching.
It’s the nuns realizing that Griddle will never be a necromancer that is the death knell to their already fragile relationship. Gideon not only moves to a dorm far from the nursery and is given a new schedule, but she herself changes. She goes from long-suffering acceptance of her shadow to outright contempt. When shouting and shoving does not keep Harrow away, Griddle resorts to silence and locking herself away.
Still, Harrow watches.
She watches her former playmate (in as much as one plays in the Ninth) pick up her first practice sword with a reverence that, if Harrow had been raised with more than a single peer, she would realize is not normal for a child of five. She watches her learn footwork and stances. She watches her grow strong and lean. She’s still a shadow, but now she mingles with the other shadows of their cold and dying home.
***
Harrow is twelve years old the first time she realizes that Griddle is beautiful. Not in the waifish, half-dead way of the Seventh or the robust, golden way of the Third. Definitely not in the beautiful mind way of the Sixth. Never that.
But when Gideon Nav picks up a sword, she blazes. Where in daily life she’s a bit of a klutz, when she holds a sword, her movements are sharp and sure. Perfection.
It’s hateful.
Harrow knows her practice routine by heart. She sees it in her sleep. She’s watched Griddle practice it hundreds of times. But if given a sword of her own, she could never replicate Gideon’s grace or assurance. Not even if she practiced for ten thousand years. Not even if Griddle stood behind her and moved her like a puppet. Especially not then. Just the thought of standing so close …
It’s a foolish thought, anyway. Ever since The Thing with her parents, Gideon won't even look at Harrow, let alone touch her. All she cares about is her sword and pleasing Aiglamene in that grasping, needy way of hers. Harrow might as well be a skeleton drone for all the attention Griddle gives her.
It’s better this way. Gideon is the reason her parents are dead. If she hadn’t been such a nosy sneak, Harrow would have completed the task and been able to show her parents she was almost worth the price they’d paid to create her. She’ll never be able to make up for that horrific act, but if she could have made her parents proud for even a single moment, it might not have been so horrific. But Gideon ruined that, and now nothing will make up for the war crime that is Harrow’s life.
Harrow hates her more than she’s ever loved anything.
***
Harrow abhors that Griddle is a flame amidst the gray shadows of the Ninth. Not just her bright shock of hair that she refuses to cover with a hood. No one in the Ninth glows with health, but she comes the closest; her skin has a pink undertone that no lack of sun or overabundance of snow leeks can dampen. Her eyes are bright as ancient gold coins, especially when she’s angry or mischievous, which is pretty much always. It’s annoying. Why is she so bright when Harrow—the Reverend Daughter, the leader of the Ninth, the heir to two hundred lives—is nothing but a dark shadow, a pit of death?
But even if their coloring was the same, Gideon would still be a flame, and that’s what irks. She isn’t quiet or gentle. She has a mouth as filthy as a toilet, and she overflows with terrible puns. She’s probably never smiled genuinely in her life—though there is a gentle upward curve to her lips during some quiet moments when she holds her sword. Instead, her usual expression is akin to a smirk or feral grin. She lacks a proper education and genteel manners. She falls asleep in the pew on the rare occasions she attends prayers. She hates Harrow with every fiber of her being and would destroy her if Harrow ever relaxed for even a moment. Flames are destructive. One does not let their guard down around them.
Gideon Nav will never be a flower of the Ninth, but the Ninth is dying anyway. Flames, on the other hand, can give new life.
***
Harrow loathes herself for watching Griddle so much. She has much better things to do—a House to run, necromancy to perfect, parents to puppeteer. But she can’t help herself sometimes. Drawn like a powerless moth to that bright flame. And it isn't even girlish fawning. She hate-watches. Every smooth, sharp move Griddle executes, sword in hand, makes Harrow’s fists clench and her blood boil. She gets headaches trying to make herself look away. Bones clatter restlessly in her pockets and around her wrists in sympathy.
They say to keep your enemies closer than your friends. Well, Harrow doesn’t have any friends, but she keeps Gideon closer than she keeps her own cavalier. Thank the Undying Lord that her house is so traditional that she must employ weak Ortus as her primary. It’s bad enough watching Griddle from the shadows or sniping at her when they come within a ten-foot distance of each other. If Gideon had been Harrow’s cav, Harrow would have combusted by now—from anger and frustration, of course—and the House would be ended for good. Cav or not, Harrow must keep a close eye on Griddle. She can’t stop watching.
Know your enemy.
***
Harrow watches from the shadows as Gideon make her eighty-seventh escape attempt. She’s exhausted and sore from staying up all night digging. She’s covered in blood and dirt—not the best vision of a lady, but the Ninth are scrabblers. They don’t have the freedom to comport themselves with the dignity of the other houses.
She waits for the opportune moment to stalk out onto the field to play her ace, and she wishes she hadn’t let her marshal go out before her. He’s ridiculously long winded, though she supposes it’ll make for a better entrance.
She watches Gideon fight her well-placed skeletons, knocking down one after another, even as more charge her. She can’t win. She’s good with a sword, but Harrow is better with bones. She watches Gideon (unconscious) be dragged into Drearburh, a place Griddle hasn’t set foot in years. She watches her face as she realizes that she’s been stranded on the Ninth (thank you, Ortus, for being the coward you are). A shiver of satisfaction thrills through her at the sight.
She’s won again. Gideon Nav is hers.
***
Harrow is busy mapping Canaan House, but she still manages to find time to watch Griddle. She can’t let her stupid cavalier out of her sight, or the idiot will open her big stupid mouth and their already unstable house of cards will come tumbling down. They can’t afford to lose. Harrow must become Lyctor. Two hundred children died to get her to this point. This is her last chance to ameliorate that heinous act and prove her life isn’t a complete waste.
Griddle does well enough with the not speaking, but her clumsy, galumphing manners still get her in trouble. She becomes the pitiful lapdog to that Seventh twit (but is she a twit? Something about her is odd, beyond her meat-puppet), and she stumbles starry eyed after the Third’s golden twin (not a necro, it’s obvious). She reveals her lack of cavalier training during a match she never should have entered, though apparently everyone is still impressed. Harrow’s never had anyone to compare Gideon’s fighting to except Aiglamene’s, but apparently she’s not as slack as expected. Uncouth and idiotic, yes. But a skilled fighter nonetheless. It gives Harrow some hope. If she becomes Lyctor, she’ll need Gideon by her side.
***
For once, Harrow isn’t watching Gideon. She can’t. If she does, she’ll literally die. Her clothes have disintegrated. Every step is like walking through thick sludge. But even though she can’t see her cavalier, she can hear her. It hurts. Her screams are more painful than Harrow’s steps, more than her head as she tries to concentrate on the theorems needed to get her across the entropy field. She fights every instinct to turn and run back to her cav. She’d ask herself when it became instinct to run toward Griddle rather than away, but she’s always been hatefully aware of the truth. From the beginning. From skinned knees in the nursery to these ridiculous Lyctor trials, Harrow’s instinct has always been to run to Griddle. It’s an instinct she’s fought her whole life, and now she wonders why she ever tried. They belong together. She’s not sure what would happen if they were separated.
Harrow thinks she might die. Luckily, it seems that no matter what she’s put through, Gideon can’t.
***
Saltwater stings her eyes, and though the water is warm like blood, Harrow shivers. Spilling her every secret (well, almost every) and all of her rage to her cavalier drains the tension from her body, and her muscles grasp for something to take its place.
Gideon’s hair and eyes glow in the yellow light. They’re too close. Gideon has hugged her, has pressed her lips to Harrow’s needy skin, and they’re too close. Harrow doesn’t know what to do other than watch the gray-smeared face a hairsbreadth from her own. Gideon’s mouth (her mouth) turns up in that annoying (heart-skipping) smirk and says the last thing Harrow expects her to, after all Harrow has said to her.
“Too many words. How about these: One flesh, one end, bitch.”
How can Gideon still want to be at her side, after everything? After a lifetime of antagonism and hateful words. After being forced into further indentured servitude. After the death of her friends. After she’s learned the dreaded secrets of the Ninth. And still, Harrow’s stupid, galumphing, shades-wearing—fuck it, she has no one to pretend to but herself, and she’s done with that—loyal, strong, amazingly badass cav asks for more. Asks for death.
At Gideon’s prompting, there’s only one thing for Harrow to say in reply, no matter how much it hurts. Her stomach clenches. “One flesh—one end.”
***
For a second time, Harrowhark Nonagesimus isn’t watching Gideon Nav. They fight side-by-side or back-to-back. They give each other what they need to gain the littlest advantage over the horrific bone monster they fight: a hit with a sword, a well-placed skeleton, a yell to watch out. Harrow’s lifetime of watching Gideon has never been more necessary. And for the first time, she allows herself to be grateful for it. They’re a well-oiled machine. They don’t need words. The slightest twitch from one lets the other know what they need. Their years of fighting have come in handy. They know each other’s fighting styles and weaknesses. But instead of exploiting those weaknesses, they help each other.
They may be dead women walking—there's no way they can win—but Harrow has never felt more powerful, and in a quick glance, Gideon’s deathly grin shows her own confidence.
They keep fighting. And fighting. And fighting. She feels the exhultation drain from her. She’s becoming exhausted. She’s running out of tricks. She wants to just stop. But she thinks back to Gideon’s words in the pool—one flesh, one end, bitch—and it’s the way she said it, full of cocky bravado and (misplaced) loyalty, that gives Harrow the boost she needs to keep going, to keep fighting, to not let her best friend down.
One flesh. One end. Bitch.
***
Even as she readies herself to fight Cytherea, even as an insubstantial Gideon guides her movements, Harrow watches her cav. She can’t tear her eyes away from the spike and blood and stillness and must rely on Gideon to make sure she survives this fight. She doesn’t want to survive, but Gideon’s resolve powers her. If she doesn’t want the whole galaxy to burn, she has to win. And Gideon has already let her know that she’s not allowed to die. If Harrow dies too, there’s no one left. Gideon is already d–
No! Don’t think. Act. React. Listen to Griddle.
“Pick it up and stop looking at me, dick. Don’t. Don’t you dare look at me.”
Harrow obeys. She has no will to fight—not Gideon, not Cytherea—but she must fight the latter. She must win. Gideon is standing behind her, guiding her, and she briefly thinks back to watching Gideon practice in the Ninth. Back when things were simple, and the worse thing she had to fight was her attraction to Gideon herself. She remembers thinking she wouldn’t be able to handle having Gideon hold her like this, but now that it’s happening, it feels natural, right. They know each other, every little bit, every movement, every snarky remark. They are made to fight together, not against each other. She feels a surge of will, which lasts until she glances back at Gideon’s bo– no, at Gideon again, and the will flees.
But Gideon knows Harrow as well as Harrow knows Gideon, and she says the exact words Harrow needs to fight. The battle takes everything Harrow has, every theorem, every trick, every bit of Gideon’s sword skills—for they are Harrow’s now too—to even come close to Cytherea’s. She’s had ten thousand years, Harrow and Gideon have only had seventeen. Still, thanks to Palamedes’ last act, they are able to triumph.
The sword clatters to the ground, and Harrow rushes to her cavalier’s side. After laying her gently on the ground, Harrow can do only one thing. The thing she’s done her whole life. The thing she’ll never be able to do again.
She watches Gideon Nav.