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“I think I saw everything shine in you, when you bobbed up again.”
Harrowhark stopped idly finicking with the edges of her cape, tattered lines and scorches, to meet Ianthe’s gaze at the end of that room.
She went back to digging.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
(She did.)
Ianthe was air drifting on the edge of her memories. She had hoped she would disappear. She should really stop hoping that. Tridentarius was persistent if nothing else. So Ianthe approached, nevertheless, and brushed the cool palm of her still-flesh hand against Harrowhark’s cheek.
She didn’t flinch like she used to. There was no hint of wincing. For her, she melted. Pliable, not out of pity, but out of trust. Harrowhark sighed against the touch, all her muscles visibly relaxing, lungs slowly refilling. She wouldn’t admit that these points of contact were the only things grounding her anymore.
(Ianthe knew.)
Ianthe kept her hand there, submitting herself to arch her spine forward, meeting the height of Harrowhark. Any others looking in would see a wolf turned sheep-dog, tail between the legs in reverence of a new master. To them, it was just comfort.
“Promise me just one thing, Harry. After this is all done. If we’re not both dead.”
Harrowhark didn’t respond, meeting the chameleon gaze instead of shying away from it. She allowed Ianthe to brush her lips, the chapped skin breaking under even the softest touch that Ianthe offered.
Harrow bled.
Ianthe licked it clean.
She swallowed, satisfied. “Promise me, you won’t run too far. I’d hate to waste the fuel hunting you so far away.”
Harrow’s eyes flickered gold, before extinguishing. And of course, Ianthe noticed. She always did.
The dull gray of her eyes seemed to shine, just a bit, with those flecks of gold. Like starlight.
“I wasn’t going to run.”
Ianthe kept her gaze, a still moment. A defective hourglass that just let them bask in that moment for a split-second. The sand kept falling along the slope of Ianthe’s smirk.
“Well, promise me you’d run at least a little then. Keep things fun for us, won’t you, sweetheart?”
Harrow jumped at the smile and bit down, hard, at her bottom lip. She didn’t even wince. She let Harrowhark take, and take, and take, and take, and take so much. She’d let her take so much more than a few metallic drops of red.
Harrow swallowed.
“Hunt me then.”
Ianthe grabbed at Harrow’s hips, a quick movement that neither of them reacted to. Harrowhark just let her frail limbs splay out against the mattress. She wrapped the same lower limbs angrily against Ianthe. Possessively.
“Hungry.” Was all Ianthe could say before devouring her.
In the back of her mind, Harrow knew what she had meant. She was shining. With everyone. With her.
And with me. I felt it too, I think.
("You’re not nearly as frail as you think, silly girl.") A few words caught.
I heard you moan her name with our lips and it reminded me of the first time we touched each other like this.
It was like fire and water meeting all at once. Every element met in the middle, and made you, Harrow.
You’re not made of glass, but you shine like it.