Chapter Text
“Again? I’m going to kill God myself for this,” Camilla promised. “And it will be very, very slow.”
Gideon rubbed her eyes and blinked slowly at Camilla. Her brain felt groggy and thick, like she’d laid down for a quick nap after lunch but didn’t wake up until after sunset. Wait, had she been napping? They were in what looked like the sick bay of a ship; all sleek edges and sterile surfaces, a decontamination area in one corner, and a line of beds with starched white linens. Gideon was sitting on one of those beds, but she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there.
“While I have no doubt that you’ll one day beat God to death with your bare hands, I’m afraid that doesn’t solve our immediate problem,” Coronabeth said gently. She looked like she was doing better than the last time that Gideon had seen her, which was…
Huh. When had that been? Gideon thought she could remember Coronabeth crying, but she wasn’t sure why. The memory was vague, as though it had been dropped into a deep lake and Gideon was standing on the shore trying to make it out through the dark water. It felt similar to reaching for the memory of a dream and only being able to recall certain details and sensations instead of the full thing; the song of a bloodstained rapier, the feeling of a leeching cold, Coronabeth weeping.
“Okay. Okay, you two are going to wait here for a moment.” Camilla gestured to Gideon and the girl sitting on the bed next to her. Gideon hadn’t noticed her until just then and she wondered how long she’d been there. “No fighting, got it?”
“Now, wait just a--” The girl started to protest, but Camilla was already taking Coronabeth by the arm and exiting the room. The automated door slid shut behind them and Gideon could hear the click of the lock engaging. The girl clicked her tongue in annoyance.
“So,” Gideon said, apparently determined to make an awkward situation even more awkward, “You come here often?”
The other girl didn’t answer and was instead examining the medical smock she was dressed in. Deeming it insufficient, she pulled up the sheet from her bed and draped it over her head and shoulders like a cloak, holding it closed at her throat. The action was strangely familiar and Gideon had the bizarre thought that she ought to do the same thing, but she didn’t.
“Sorry, do I know you?” Gideon asked.
“No.” The girl’s voice was hoarse from disuse and she didn’t look at Gideon.
“Do you know where we are?”
The girl remained tensely silent, so Gideon figured that was also a ‘no.’
“I’m Gideon Nav. And you are…?”
The girl’s eyes fell upon her for the first time and Gideon was startled to find that they were as black as despair. “Nav is a Ninth House name.”
“Well, yeah. I’m from the Ninth.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re definitely not from the Ninth.”
Gideon switched gears from confused to annoyed. “Excuse you, but I didn’t get my ass kicked up and down the steps of Drearburh for eighteen years just to have the world’s tiniest asshat give me lip about it.”
The girl stood now, drawing herself up to her full height-- which wasn’t very high, but the shadows in the room seemed to lengthen when she did, as though bowing to the mistress of eternal darkness-- and the exhausted circles around her eyes made her face gaunt and skull-like. Gideon’s palms prickled when she spoke, intoning in a way that reminded her, terrifyingly, of Crux.
“I am the Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus, and I know the face of each one of my supplicants. If someone as feckless as you, Gideon Nav, were among my congregation, then I would have tossed you out the airlock when I first laid eyes on you.”
Gideon narrowed her eyes at Harrowhark. “You’re lucky I don’t hit kids.”
Outside the room, Camilla and Coronabeth could hear the unmistakable sounds of a physical altercation.
These were the facts: Gideon was missing parts of her memory. Sometimes when she tried to recall certain people or events, her brain felt like a useless hunk of holey cheese. Any attempts to actively examine what wasn’t there left her alternately groggy and frustrated. She spent as much time as she could exercising or practicing with her two-hander, the only activities where she felt consistently like herself. Sparring with Camilla and Coronabeth helped a little, bringing clarity to the dense fog that encased her memory of Canaan House, but Gideon always hit a wall at a certain point and she was beginning to suspect that Harrowhark stood on the other side of that barrier.
Harrow’s presence was an eerie combination of familiar and strange. The way she dressed herself-- with layers of dark clothing and a black scarf to hide her hair and face when she didn’t have paint-- reminded Gideon uncannily of the nuns back on the Ninth. But the nuns were all ancient, creaking creatures and Harrow was so young. Even through the layers of face paint, Gideon could tell that she was a baby nunlette around the same age as herself.
Gideon wasn’t sure whether or not she liked being around Harrow, but every cell in her body was undeniably drawn to her. She knew that the feeling wasn’t mutual; Harrow acted like she despised the inconvenience of being forced to breathe the same air as Gideon. She did a masterful job at avoiding Gideon as much as she possibly could, considering that not only were they often stuck in close quarters, but Camilla also insisted that the pair of them should spend time together. (And arguing with Camilla was about as effective as trying to force the rock to roll away from the Tomb just by yelling very loudly at it.)
Harrow didn’t like to cook if she could help it, but this meant that her food options were incredibly limited, especially when they were stuck inside safe houses and compounds like this one. After two solid days spent avoiding people (mostly Gideon but also Camilla and occasionally other members of the BOE), Harrow was finally lured back to society by the cries of her stomach. She preferred to linger in the less-frequented areas of the compound, but now she was forced to approach the kitchen.
It was in the middle of the afternoon, an odd time for a meal, but Harrow could smell that someone had cooked recently and hoped that there was something left over. She hesitated near the doorway to the kitchen, listening intently for any sound from within, but there was nothing. Satisfied, Harrow rounded the corner and was startled when she made direct eye contact with Gideon Nav.
Gideon was seated alone at a table, her head resting on her folded arms, and an empty bowl and drinking glass next to her. When she saw Harrow, her eyes widened and she sprung to her feet, knocking her chair back onto the floor.
“Uh, hey!”
“...Hey,” Harrow said cautiously. There was still food on the stove but she was no longer certain that she wanted it.
“So, um, what’re you up to?” Gideon asked. She carefully stepped closer, as though Harrow were a feral cat that she wanted to befriend.
Biting her tongue in an effort to smother the conversation while it was still in utero, Harrow gestured to the rice cooker on the counter by way of explanation. Gideon nodded, took a bowl from the cupboard, and- to Harrow’s growing horror and dismay- she lifted the lid of the cooker with a waft of steam and began to scoop rice.
“Are you settling in alright?”
“Well enough,” Harrow answered grudgingly.
“Not sleeping?”
“Lots of people have trouble sleeping,” Harrow said peevishly, annoyed that Gideon had guessed correctly. The frown of her skull paint intensified, making her look even more like a skinny, mean skeleton, but her dour expression only made Gideon’s mouth quirk into a bemused smile.
“You really are from the Ninth, huh? Your paint makes me a little homesick for the nuns, which is weird because I never thought I would miss them at all. But I guess it’s that good old ‘longing for the familiar’ or whatever,” Gideon babbled as she moved from the rice to the cooling pan of meat and vegetables on the stove, oblivious to Harrow’s struggle to stop her without speaking to or touching Gideon. “Everything out here is so different-- and don’t get me wrong, it’s different in a way that’s definitely good-- but sometimes I get this feeling that there’s something important that I’ve left behind back there. Like I forgot to turn the stove off, or I didn’t pack enough underwear for a trip.”
Gideon passed the bowl she’d filled to Harrow, but held on when Harrow tried to take it from her. Her face and voice were soft with wonder, but there was a touch of sorrow in her golden eyes. “But then I look at you, and I don’t feel that way anymore.”
Harrow felt a swell of something terrifying in her chest and she pinched the back of Gideon’s hand to get her to let go of the bowl. She turned away with a flourish of dark fabric and hastily left the kitchen, aware that Gideon was still speaking but incapable of parsing the words from the pounding of blood in her ears.
Unable to bear returning to their shared room, Harrow went to the cargo bay. The temperature here wasn’t regulated as well as the rest of the building, but the cold and dark reminded Harrow of Drearburh when she closed her eyes and it soothed her frenetic mind a little. Harrow wanted very badly to return home to the Ninth, but for some reason that was only partially clear to her, she knew that she couldn’t. (Similar to the way that she instinctively knew that she couldn’t return to God for help, but Harrow actively chose not to examine those shards of memory.) Being around Gideon sometimes eased her homesickness, but more often she made it worse.
After Harrow tucked herself away in the maze of crates, she was disappointed to realize that she’d neglected to grab a fork. But it wouldn’t be difficult to eat with her hands, especially since the only thing that Gideon had topped her rice with was a few pieces of leek.
The awful feeling rose in Harrow again as she stared down into her bowl. It was exactly what she would have done if she’d been allowed to serve herself.
Who the fuck is Gideon Nav?
For reasons that Camilla refused to fully explain, it was necessary for them to travel often. She tried to accommodate Harrow’s need to know as many details as possible, but their schedule seemed to be largely determined by forces outside of Camilla’s control, and moving days would come without forewarning.
On this particular day, Camilla tapped almost inaudibly on the door to Harrow and Gideon’s room well before sunrise. Harrow was already awake and applying her skull paint with the aid of a cracked hand mirror and a book light, but she knew when she saw Camilla’s face that she would have to remove it. The paint was not allowed on traveling days since it made her stand out in a crowd.
“Be ready to leave in half an hour. I’ll meet you here when it’s time,” Camilla whispered, glancing past Harrow at Gideon, still asleep on the floor and facing the wall. She left as quickly and soundlessly as she’d arrived, moving with the calculated grace of a huntress on the prowl. Harrow shut the door and steeled herself for the task that was rousing a slumbering Gideon Nav.
“Nav,” Harrow said as loud as she dared, for the walls were thin and sound traveled further in the quiet before dawn. There was, of course, no response so Harrow turned on the overhead light, crouched next to Gideon’s bedroll, and said her name again. She wanted dearly to kick her awake, but knew from recent experience that this would result in a noisier sendoff than Camilla would prefer. Begrudgingly, Harrow reached out her hand and pat Gideon’s shoulder with her fingers, careful to touch only her shirt and not the warm brown skin. “Nav.”
Gideon slept on, like Harrow fucking knew she would. At last, Harrow grasped Gideon’s shoulder and gently shook her as she hissed, “For the love of the Tomb, Griddle.”
Gideon’s hand encircled Harrow’s wrist and she rolled onto her back, blinking blearily at the sharp light and slurring her words. “Wha’s happenin’?”
“We’re leaving soon,” Harrow said with a practiced veneer of calm. She tried to pull her hand away, but Gideon clung to her like a child with a favored ulna.
Gideon nodded sleepily and rubbed her unoccupied hand over her face. “What’d you jus’ call me?”
“Ass-face,” Harrow snapped. She jerked her hand free and her skin tingled uncomfortably where Gideon had touched her.
“If you leave the transport, stay together,” Camilla reminded them before she left on an errand, but she was looking directly at Harrow when she said it.
Harrow, who was feeling a little ill from space travel and knew better than to argue with Camilla at this point, merely nodded her acquiescence.
“Do you want breakfast?” Gideon asked, knowing that Harrow wouldn’t but also knowing better than to ask her directly how she was feeling.
“No,” Harrow said, but she got up and lead the way out onto the dock. She didn’t want to be around people either, but she did need to be near a better source of thanergy.
The planet they’d stopped on had two suns, which Harrow thought was excessive. Luckily, the solar shields that surrounded the city kept most of the heat out, but unfortunately they didn’t do much for the brightness. Gideon slipped on her sunglasses and Harrow pulled the edge of her scarf down over her eyes, still able to see through the sheer fabric. Rather than asking for directions, she and Gideon followed the smells of food to a market that wasn’t far from the docks. Neither of them were used to using cash to pay for things, but Harrow at least had experience in money and budgeting from running an entire planet, so she controlled the small wad of bills that Camilla had provided them. She let Gideon pick whatever food stall she wanted to eat at, as long as it wasn’t too expensive, and paid the attendant without complaint.
“We should get you some sunglasses,” Gideon said around a mouthful of something called a ‘breakfast burrito’ even though it was well past breakfast by the local time. They sat together on a large brick planter that bordered the main street of the market and watched the people mill about. Most of them had sunglasses like Gideon’s and wore loose, airy clothing. “You look like a tourist.”
“We are tourists,” Harrow said, not bothering to point out that Gideon was dressed more similarly to herself than the locals. “But it doesn’t matter. We won’t be here that long.”
“Sure, but a lot of these planets are pretty bright--”
“It’s unnecessary.”
Gideon rolled her eyes behind the reflective lenses and possibly unhinged her jaw to shove the rest of the burrito into her mouth. “We’ve still got some time before we have to head back. Is there anything that you necessarily want to do?”
Harrow remained stubbornly uncommunicative. Her nausea had abated but now she could feel the beginnings of a headache and she was positive that proximity to Gideon would only make it worse.
“Come on.” Gideon hopped off the wall and held out a hand for Harrow.
“Where are we going?” Harrow stood, ignoring Gideon’s offer.
“Somewhere with air con,” Gideon answered, which was frankly all that Harrow needed to motivate her into following. The heat was rising along with the suns and neither of them were very pleased by how the air thickened with humidity.
Since they were near a transportation center, all of the street signs were very clearly labeled in multiple languages. Gideon lead them a few blocks over to a library that was more modern than anything Harrow had seen before. It was almost ostentatious with its sleek metal shelves, modern art on display, and touchscreen interfaces that were entirely without fingerprints or dust, but the sheer amount of books and tablets reassured her that it was indeed a library. Gideon grinned triumphantly, knowing that she’d chosen well. Harrow tried to ignore both Gideon and the foreign impulse she felt to praise her for a job well done.
“I remember being in a huge, old library back on our planet… but I don’t think I ever read anything there, since it was mostly, y’know… reference books.” Gideon glanced surreptitiously at the librarians seated behind the check-out desk, knowing better than to say the words ‘Ninth House’ or ‘necromancy’ out in public.
“Your interests do seem to lie with more crass publications,” Harrow said, thinking of the pulp novels that she’d seen Gideon with. She gravitated towards the reference section, curious what she would find there.
“C’mon,” Gideon groaned, “You caught me with a skin mag one time. I do actually read other things.”
“That wasn’t-- never mind.” Harrow decided that it was far better to end the conversation than to risk hearing Gideon say ‘skin mag’ again while they were in an environment that demanded silence from its visitors. Plus, thinking about the possibility of Gideon perusing said magazines when Harrow wasn’t around to catch her made her stomach feel strange.
Now flustered and frustrated, Harrow selected an aisle at random and stalked down it. Gideon followed half a step behind her. “Harrow?”
“I have a headache.” Harrow’s voice cracked and made her feel even worse. She stopped walking and swallowed around the lump in her throat, but she spoke with her back to Gideon. “Leave me be, Nav. Please.”
Harrow felt Gideon hesitate behind her and for a moment neither of them said anything.
“Alright,” Gideon said at last, with reluctant acceptance. “I’ll be in the periodicals if you need me.”
After Harrow was certain that Gideon was gone, her shoulders slumped and she sighed, pressing her cheek to one of the cool, metal shelves.
“Idiot,” Harrow whispered, uncertain which of them she was accusing.