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As all gods do, Yidhra reads people’s palms from time to time. Palm reading for her isn’t the practice us foolish humans are accustomed to when we visit a fortune-teller’s tent at a fair, nor is it a way to tell your future and your past; it’s just an easy way to find out a lot about you.
Fiona’s hands, for example: they worked hard, but were still very fragile in appearance. When her hair was loose, she would brush it with the tips of her long, pale fingers, and much like her eyes, those delicately decorated nails would glint a little against the candlelit chandelier of the common dining hall, which was a particularly shiny room. And in the morning, when she braided her hair the way she always did – with admirable precision, and the braid stayed neatly in place throughout the day no matter how much she ran and struggled and jumped around – that’s when her hands looked their prettiest, because her thumb and index pressed red locks together and tied them gracefully like it was the easiest thing to do. Yidhra had once asked Fiona if she would braid her hair too, and she did, but it felt weird not having the long waves hitting her back and shoulders all day long, so it didn’t stay for long. Not that it didn’t look beautiful, it did!, as did everything Fiona made with those hands of hers.
Her hands moved, played, danced, created.
The goddess stared.
Graceful fingers ornamented with rings, but sometimes outshone by gloves; dainty little gestures that she made as she danced, moving her wrists together and folding each finger at a time to give the impression that the hands were swaying, rotating around a non-existent orbit between her two arms.
Maybe Fiona herself was that orbit, Yidhra had once thought, and chuckled to herself – because Fiona was much like the sun, even though she insisted she was the moon. And when the witch stared down at her own hands, the ones from this shape she had chosen to take, she felt the priestess couldn’t have been more wrong: Yidhra's fingers were sharp, not just because of the shapes of her nails; dark and grim, threatening, even. Hands like that did not go well with Fiona’s, she thought (and whenever Yidhra thought something, she always assumed she was unquestionably right).
Then again, nothing about the two of them really fit together: it’s not like the witch had a pair of legs to accompany her lover when she danced and pranced around the room, and her teeth were too sharp and her form was too tall. A part of her was scared, scared as she’d never been in a thousand million years, that Fiona’s love might not live on if she took on a different body; but sometimes she wished she could be physically closer to her. There was an odd desire for similarity, even in a love that had blossomed from their differences. Did they even belong?
“I’m cold.” The witch heard a low mutter, a whiny one. Yidhra hadn’t been able to recognize herself lately, always so immersed in thought it was like a trip between two worlds when she was brought back to reality by a voice like that. She smiled gently in reply, even if Fiona couldn’t see her face with her back turned to her, and wrapped an arm around her smaller body. She found that the priestess's fingers had been resting next to her chest and intertwined them with her own.
Yidhra found solace in those hands. They may not be a perfect fit for hers, but they felt comfortable, gentle, soft.
After a brief silent pause, Fiona tightened the grip, only to slowly turn around with her eyes open.
“You should sleep.” Yidhra hummed, but was met with a soft little grin.
“You’re tense. What are you feeling?” She asked. Her voice was the music Yidhra never knew she needed, and if the night stars had any sound at all, this had to be it. Beautiful and clear, somewhat husky and almost sensual in a way. The goddess mused that her lover could say the silliest of things and still sound as alluring as a poet reciting their masterpiece to the anticipating world.
She couldn’t respond to a voice like that with a lie, nor could she bore Fiona's mind with big, complicated words, because she was smart enough that she would understand the implications of her ramblings. She smelled Yidhra’s woes where even the goddess was unaware of them.
Instead, she asked:
“Don’t you think you and I are perfect together?”, and to that, Fiona laughed lightheartedly.
She brought the witch’s hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to each knuckle. Yidhra thought those lips were softer than the pillows and the bedsheets.
“I do.”
The goddess didn’t need to read their hands, nor did the priestess need her treasured tarot cards to know they were right about that.