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When she sees Y’shtola again, it’s on the battlefield. It’s almost amusing, how it’s sort of a full circle kind of thing; Y’shtola had once thrown herself in front of Zenos for her, and now Lyse catches sight of the tops of Y’shtola’s ears, and she finds herself running to throw herself in front of a mech.
There’s smoke everywhere, and the sound of metal bending and snapping is absolutely horrid, but Lyse doesn’t really care about any of that. She feels the surge of magic as it flies past her, and hears the sound of Y’shtola yelling spells behind her. She hasn’t even fully seen the other woman yet, but that’s new, she thinks to herself. There’s no protective bubble being cast her way, only a flurry of flames narrowly avoiding scorching her.
Well, she can work with that.
Swiftly, she makes a beeline for the mech’s leg, aiming to incapacitate it, but she doesn’t exactly get the chance. It seems she underestimated whatever new magic Y’shtola is using, because the entire thing literally explodes in her face. She’s sent flying backwards, but she’s quick on her feet these days, and rights herself without much effort. What’s a little explosion, anyway?
Her brain rattles a little in her skull, still, but she has to know. With a gust of wind, probably from some other mage nearby, the smoke clears, and there’s Y’shtola. She’s wearing all black and wielding a staff made of an almost sickly looking dark wood. Her hair is shorter, and has been adorned with turquoise feathers. Still, it’s her. There’s no one else with a gravity like hers. Lyse is drawn to her, despite the battle.
“Found you.”
There are lots of questions to ask. So many that Lyse’s head feels like it’s full of cotton. Or perhaps that’s the result of getting thrown to the ground by yet another mech, she isn’t certain. Regardless, it’s overwhelming, and it’s not exactly the place, not when Soli runs past her, jumping high in the air before crashing down with the spirit and the life of a dragon. Y’shtola stays nearby, as much as she can for someone who isn’t throwing herself at imperials like Lyse and Soli. When a particularly large machine drops onto the field from above, she tosses Lyse a look.
“Don’t you dare get yourself killed trying to dismantle that thing, or I’ll be furious with you for the rest of eternity. Do you understand me?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Y’shtola practically drags her back to the Reach that very same night. Lyse asks if maybe they should take a griffin, and Y’shtola gives her a look that’s scarier than any imperial machine. So, they settle on a carriage. Truthfully, Lyse doesn’t feel a thing, but she’s aware of the blood on Y’shtola’s hands and the damp sensation coming from the side of her head. She couldn’t care less.
“How long have you been back? I told Soli to tell me the moment they could, but Tataru also told me that you’ve all been recovering.”
Weary, Y’shtola offers her a glance. Gods, she looks different, feels different. She’s still Y’shtola, no doubt about that, but she’s changed. It’s a bit daunting, but Lyse’s head spins if she thinks too hard about it, so she opts for resting it on Y’shtola’s shoulder. The other woman tenses for a moment before relaxing, and Lyse hums.
“About a week. I’m sorry we weren’t here sooner.”
On impulse, Lyse searches for Y’shtola’s hand. She squeezes it softly, hoping the act does enough to convey at least a little bit of how she feels, if only because she has no idea how to actually say all of it.
“It’s alright, Shtola,” she says, because it is, but she also knows they’ll have to talk about it later. A few weeks ago, Soli had arrived at the Lochs, and had told Lyse that the Scions were making their return from the First. Ultimately, there was very little about it that Lyse actually understood; there was still a war here, on the Source, and that took up so much of her energy that she didn’t have it in her to even attempt to comprehend the dangers of world-hopping. Still, she was relieved when Tataru sent word that her friends had returned safely. Now, she sits in the back of a carriage with Y’shtola, holding her hand. In another life, or perhaps if she were someone else, it would all seem too absurd, but this is par for the course for the Scions.
When they finally make it to the Reach, Y’shtola practically shoves Lyse towards the ward, not even allowing her to mingle with her soldiers first. As they walk in, Lyse happily greets the chirurgeons, who all toss her weary looks as she’s dragged to a bed all the way in the back. Orella wanders over and hands Y’shtola supplies.
“Hi, Orella!” Lyse chimes, removing the coat she had been wearing. She stopped using Yda’s outfit a few battles ago. She got tired of how it made her feel when she had to wash blood out of it, but no one else really needed to know that. Orella shoots her a glare before turning to Y’shtola.
“Glad to see you again, ma’am. Tell her she needs to stop attempting to tear the entire imperial army apart on her own.”
Lyse tilts her head back and groans. “I’m sitting right here!”
Y’shtola ignores her, too. “I’ll try, but you know how she is.”
“You’re right. I do. And I also know you’re the only person she listens to, save for Raubahn himself” Orella says, mirthfully. “I’ll write a report to him at once, just in case.”
“No!”
Y’shtola lightly grips at Lyse’s bicep, keeping her sitting. “Thank you, Orella. I can take it from here.”
Satisfied, the healer nods and takes her leave. Lyse actually pouts, but Y’shtola strategically looks away to organize all of the supplies on the small table nearby. Knowing she’s been beat, Lyse deflates and allows Y’shtola to get her work done.
Gently, Y’shtola takes Lyse’s hand in her own and begins applying whatever salve she had with her to her scarred knuckles. Her touch is so soft it makes Lyse want to sob, but that would be mortifying, so she settles for watching the other woman’s face while she works. She can’t contain the goofy smile that stretches across her face, nor can she prevent the healthy blush that spreads across her cheeks. Months of keeping up her optimism and strength and finally, Y’shtola is in front of her, touching her.
“Lyse,” Y’shtola warns, her voice low, as she reaches for the linen bandages. “You mustn’t look at me like that. What will your soldiers say?”
“I don’t care.”
A frustrated huff. “You may not, but some of us are Scions, if your memory serves you well.”
“And?”
Y’shtola finishes wrapping her left hand and moves onto her right, but not before lightly whacking her thigh. Lyse giggles, and it should be embarrassing. Before, she never acted like this. She was very good at pretending she wasn’t with Y’shtola behind closed doors, but after so long apart, she feels like she completely lost her skill for it.
Rather childishly, she whines, “You’re taking forever.”
“Oh, forgive me for wishing to take the time to mend your wounds properly. I can’t heal you so quickly anymore.”
Ah, that.
“What made you do it?” Lyse asks, genuinely curious. She doesn’t mind, of course; seeing the way Y’shtola commanded the battlefield made her feel something she doesn’t even know how to describe with words. But it is quite the change, and one that Matoya will have much to say about, at that.
“The First ‘twas a harsh place, I’m afraid.”
“More harsh than here?”
Y’shtola pauses mid-wrapping, and Lyse can tell that she’s said something a bit too heavy for the healing ward of the Reach at around three in the morning.
(It had been late when they had been separated for the first time, except it had been Y’shtola unconscious in a cot and Lyse walking away.)
“Forget it,” Lyse whispers, leaning in close. “We can talk about that later. Finish patching me up and you can see my place, yeah?”
Y’shtola shakes her head, but Lyse can see the way her mouth twitches upwards. She missed this. After Ala Mhigo’s liberation, she had learned quickly that smooth talking is not her strong suit, but for some reason, that never seems to matter with Y’shtola. In fact, if Lyse gambled, she might even wager that Y’shtola likes that about her.
Eventually, a respectable distance apart, they head off to Lyse’s home at the Reach. At Y’shtola’s insistence, Lyse had taken numerous potions at the Barber, and now carries a slip of to remind her which ones to get tomorrow from the market. She can’t think of the last time she ever put this much effort into her own recovery, but she can’t stand to see Y’shtola worry about her. They walk down the empty hallways in silence, but after the screeching noises of the battlefield, it’s a welcome change.
Lyse’s apartment is tucked away from anyone else’s. It’s smaller because of this, but the privacy is unmatched. Raubahn had tried to convince her to just move to Ala Mhigo, where she could have her very own house, but she liked being closer to this part of the resistance. M’naago was here, as well, and truthfully, she didn’t feel as though she had earned much more than this quiet, secluded place.
(Also, Lyse would be lying if she were to say that she didn’t insist on this place as her home partly because of Y’shtola. No one was around here to notice if she spent hours here, and. Well. There was no one to complain of noise, either, though that was usually her own fault.)
When they arrive, Lyse unlocks the door and holds it open for Y’shtola, who makes a quiet remark about Lyse being such a gentlewoman as she enters. She’s been here countless times, as well, but Lyse still takes her pack from her hands.
“So, your nightclothes are still next to mine, in the top drawer in the armoire on your left. Uh, that soap you like from Limsa is still there, in the bathroom. And I think I have the tea you like, too, but if I don’t, I can always get it from the market tomorrow,” Lyse counts off every detail on her fingers, just to make sure she doesn’t forget anything. “Oh, and there’s some books by the bed on the nightstand. Was saving them for you.”
Y’shtola steps in front of her then, and gives her a look she isn’t quite sure how to decipher. She’s smiling, but there’s something else in her eyes, something that makes Lyse’s heart beat just a bit harder against her ribcage.
“What?”
“Ah,” Y’shtola reaches out to grab onto the front of Lyse’s jacket. “Nothing. You’re just sweet, is all.”
Despite all the times Y’shtola has ever complimented her, Lyse still can’t handle it. She sputters and shuffles back and forth on her feet like a complete idiot. She glances away, embarrassed by the blush that creeps across her face now. And Y’shtola just laughs, rather maniacally. She can be so evil.
She removes one hand from Lyse’s jacket to ghost her fingers against Lyse’s jaw, pushing upwards, encouraging her to look up and at her. She smiles again.
“Thank you, for keeping my things. You’ve been very kind, and I believe you’ve earned a reward, wouldn’t you say?”
Oh.
A quiet “Y-yes,” is all Lyse can muster. She’s out of practice when it comes to this.
Y’shtola smiles wider, showing off her pointed teeth, and Lyse almost collapses. It’s a smile that no one else gets to see, and she knows it. She leans up to kiss Lyse then, but it’s far too soft and far too quick. Lyse is about to protest, until Y’shtola kisses her again, this time with arms reaching upwards to loop around her neck, and her teeth nibbling on her lower lip. All Lyse can do is groan softly into her mouth and wrap her own hands around her waist.
Y’shtola doesn’t let it go on for too long, however, because she’s nothing if not cruel. She pulls away, composed as ever, like nothing even happened. Meanwhile, Lyse stands dazed, realizing just how much she missed even just kissing the other woman.
“Odd,” Y’shtola muses and taps her knuckles against her temple lightly, the telltale sign that she was pondering something. “You didn’t mention what happened to my tea.”
“What? Tea?”
With a light smack to her rear, because she’s even worse than cruel, Y’shtola chuckles as she slides past Lyse to the bathroom.
Under the effects of a whole menu of potions, Lyse passes out easily, one arm thrown across Y’shtola’s waist and her forehead pressed against her hips as she sits up, reading. Surely, it can’t be comfortable, but it’s so distinctly just like Lyse to fall asleep that way, so she doesn’t try to move her. Instead, she flips through one of the books the sleeping woman apparently found for her and kept for her, during her absence. It’s a book on Gyr Abanian wildlife and their various magical properties, and it’s thankfully written in aether infused ink. It’s not something she would’ve picked up on her own, but she finds herself fascinated by it, regardless. Perhaps Lyse knew this when she picked it out for her, and the thought alone makes her heart ache.
She sighs. For her, it had been three years apart, although for Lyse, it had only been a few months. Still, she knows Lyse, but she also knows that even the strongest resolves will break after enough loss. She stares at the cover of her book. Her fingertips ghost over the gold lettering on its over, a stark contrast to the light blue coloring on the leather.
“Shtola?”
Y’shtola inhales sharply as she looks up to see Lyse, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes. Oh, she’s impossibly cute, which is maddening in of itself. Someone with a penchant for almost animalistic tendencies on the battlefield should not be able to look like this. They’ve been here before, in this room, but Y’shtola somehow feels as though it’s new all over again. Lyse only stares at her, her face flushed and hair sticking out oddly.
“Forgive me, love. I didn’t intend to wake you up.”
“S’okay,” Lyse slurs, and Y’shtola finds herself unable to contain possibly the millionth smile she’s had today. She pushes Lyse’s bangs to the side and kisses her. Lyse smiles into it, lazy and completely timeless, and Y’shtola feels like laughing and crying all at once.
When they pull away, Lyse grumbles something incoherent and reaches out for Y’shtola, pouting. “Want you,” she grunts, voice thick and groggy after potion induced sleep.
Y’shtola wants to tease her for her for being so bratty, but it has been too long, so she places the book on the nightstand, lies down, and lets Lyse tug her closer. She buries her face in Y’shtola’s neck and sighs, causing her to shiver.
Lyse somehow clings to her more tightly, and mumbles, “Are you cold? I can warm you up,” in her voice that she thinks is attractive, but right now, she just sounds silly. Y’shtola can’t control the small laugh that slips from her mouth, causing Lyse to pout again.
“You can barely keep your eyes open.”
Lyse frowns, but she’s unable to deny the truth. With a small smile, Y’shtola runs her fingers through blonde locks and presses her lips to the top of Lyse’s head. This always gets her to fall asleep almost instantly, and Y’shtola knows it’s working when she feels the puffs air against her neck slow down. There’s something to be said about knowing small things about Lyse like this, things that no one else would ever know. In a way, it’s a thrill; Y’shtola takes great pride, more often than not, in being the only one in a room who knows something. This is no different. And, in another way, it’s dizzying knowing that Lyse knows more about her than perhaps anyone ever has.
The thought takes her back the First, spending time with the Night’s Blessed, allowing them to know her little by little. In the end, though, she never revealed as much of herself to anyone else besides the woman who has now subconsciously wrapped a leg around her own as she breathes deeply with sleep.
Certain that Lyse has fallen asleep, Y’shtola whispers, as quietly as she can, “I am so very fond of you, Lyse Hext.”
Unable to put feelings into words beyond that, she decides to leave it be, and falls asleep not long after.
They decide to spend a few days at Rhalgr’s Reach before heading for Mor Dhona, with Lyse insisting upon getting updates from all the Scions.
“I’m supposed to be impartial, too, you know. Can’t pick a favorite Scion, now can I?” she muses, watching Y’shtola slip on one of her Ala Mhigan robes. Dark purple, with silver beading. Lyse had actually gotten it with Y’shtola in mind. But, not like this, exactly. She had hoped Y’shtola would’ve taken it off of her, not taken it from her. Still, it’s gorgeous on her, just as everything is, even if it’s a bit too big. Y’shtola apparently has actual genuine business in Ala Mhigo, and refuses to allow Lyse to accompany her, insisting that she rest, but the sight of her makes Lyse’s mouth water.
“Oh, of course,” Y’shtola chimes. “Absolutely no favoritism here.”
She finishes dressing, but strolls over to stand next to the bed, anyway. Always drawn to her, Lyse sits up and allows the other woman to glide her finger tips across her cheek.
“Careful,” Lyse says, voice rough. “You’re supposed to be impartial.”
(It’s all a poorly constructed way to cope with the fact that they’re most definitely not supposed to be doing this. Jokes and charged statements, the occasional brushing of hands beneath a table. And it’s probably not sane, by any degree, but Lyse often muses that she could have Y’shtola in secret forever, as long as it meant having her at all.)
The Scion nods and drops her hand. Lyse pretends she doesn’t feel the loss.
“I’ll be back tonight. Please, do make sure you actually remember to get your potions at the market, hm?”
Grinning, Lyse does a mock salute and singsongs, “Yes ma’am!”
And she doesn't stop grinning, even when Y'shtola leans down to kiss her.