Archive of Our Own

in the myriadic year of our lord—the ten thousandth year of the king undying, the kindly prince of death!—gideon gaius flashed a brilliant smile at the assembled crowd and descended the grand staircase of canaan house’s ballroom.

the ballroom, the pride of the emperor, had been decorated according to the instructions of the pride of the empire: gideon herself. as such, it was an absolute disaster. her father, had he bothered to be in attendance, would’ve been disappointed. (the fact that god always seemed disappointed in gideon, regardless of her inaptitude for interior design, was neither here nor there.) honestly, the ballroom was better left undescribed. no one, not even augustine, had anything nice to say about it, which was a real shame, because canaan house had a gracefulness and grandeur not found in the more contemporaneous buildings of the nine houses. the estate had been built during an era long forgotten—perhaps even before the empire itself had been conceived – and had been restored some two decades earlier, to celebrate the disastrous union of the lord of eternal rest and the commander of the edenites. no expenses had been spared: the floor-to-ceiling windows featured not plexi, but actual glass, and the french doors had been hand-carved from wood that had been moldering in a storeroom somewhere, forgotten for millennia. earlier that morning, as the household skeletons brought in the vases overflowing with fragrant blooms and arranged the music stands just so, harrowhark nonagesimus had called the combination of tasteless decor and timeless setting "tragic." gideon in turn told her that she was tragic. 

at the foot of the stairs, her descent completed, gideon paused. two people were waiting for her. the first figure, a small and reedy man who insisted on being called “teacher,” of all things—“teacher of what? to whom?!” harrowhark had demanded of gideon, once—bounced on the soles of his feet, eager to get on with the formal announcement that would get the ball rolling on the last social event of the season. with a series of rapid, almost unrestrained, claps, he engendered a somewhat respectful silence.

“her divine highness, the illuminated grand duchess of the house of the first, the celestial heir to the empire of the nine,” he proclaimed, as if there was a single person in attendance who didn’t already know gideon on sight. nonetheless, the crowd waited patiently for the ad hoc majordomo to finish before erupting into applause. (somewhere, amongst the slapping of hands, gideon heard a series of loud and somewhat obscene whistles, prompting a smile to erupt on her face, changing it from just handsome to undeniably charming.) tall and buff, with the bright red hair (cropped short, in a martial manner) she inherited from her edenite mother, gideon gaius could no more hide from her admirers than a pop star could hide from theirs.

when the noise was bearable again, gideon reached forward with a courtly gesture to grasp the limp hand of her grace, the duchess of rhodes, the second person awaiting her. dulcinea septimus was “a creature crafted from the dreams of the most ardent of admirers.” the first time harrowhark heard that particular phrase, uttered by the grand duchess herself, to an assemblage of her lackeys at the fifth house salon last month, she’d snorted. “utter rot,” she’d muttered to her companions—"those sixth house nerds," as gideon liked to call them.

from her vantage point in the far back corner of the ballroom, harrowhark spectated, as she had since her arrival at canaan house eight years prior. at twenty-seven, with an impossibly ethereal charm to her looks, dulcinea should’ve been a serious contender for the role of imperial consort. but! the emperor hadn’t performed a resurrection in ages and no one had any indication that he’d do the deed if his daughter’s spouse happened to kick the bucket soonish. and, so, gideon followed after dulcie (as she called her) as strays tended to follow after anyone kind enough to give them scraps, begging for her soft smiles and kind words, the knowledge that nothing serious could ever happen forever lingering in the background.

harrowhark turned towards the man beside her, a pinched look on her face, and said, “that should be you, sixth.” the master warden, palamedes sextus, deliberately misunderstanding her statement, responded in kind: “yes, well… i’d love to be dancing with dulcie, but she told me never to make her suffer so again.”

“you know what i meant, sextus.”

“i have no interest in her divine highness, reverend daughter.”

“all the better, then. emotions such as love just complicate matters. besides, she’s an over-large buffoon. left to her own devices, she’d choose the prettiest creature to appear before her and lead us all to disgrace and ruin. you’re not much to look at, but your genius is almost unmatched.”

palamedes smiled at the praise and with a thin, knobby finger, shoved his glasses farther up his nose. he and harrowhark stood shoulder to shoulder in their chosen corner. both were the heirs of their respective houses, but both palamedes and harrowhark also tended to resemble underfed, feral children more than aristocrats. if not for their clothes, an unsuspecting attendee might consider them trespassers altogether.

palamedes was dressed in one of the high-collared and utilitarian suits that his house preferred. a bit plain, all in all, but well-made. and, moreover, thanks to the careful ministrations of camilla the sixth, spotless for once. in contrast to his unrelenting grays, the reverend daughter sported unrelenting black.

her skullpaint had been applied with meticulous care, as it had been since she’d been first allowed the honor at three. if it ever occurred to her to raise the veil protecting her from the stares of others, she’d impress and enthrall them with the precision of her lines and the manner in which the black greasepaint seemed to make her eyes appear fathomless. no doubt they'd assume she'd sacrificed small animals or something to get that level of perfection. as if she needed to resort to something so pathetic.

her gown, which had been commissioned the week before last at the behest of his celestial kindness himself, was embroidered velvet. floor-length and long-sleeved, it should’ve been a safe and boring dress, befitting the mistress of dank and gloomy drearburh. alas, it was not. not at all safe, not at all boring, and not at all befitting of her station. in deference to the necrolord prime, the emperor all-giving, the saint of life and death, who begged her to “have some fun with this last one, kiddo,” harrowhark had made the miserable decision to forgo the vaguely shapeless silhouette her house favored and told the seamstress to “do her worst.”

the result was, in all frankness, immodest. the sleeves puffed out from the shoulders to elbows before being gathered to a tight sheath that hugged her forearms. the pleated falls of the skirt bunched around her middle, showing off her waistline for all to see. she'd learned years ago that the nine houses elites who attended these events were "skeeved out" by her "bone couture" and had left off most of the skeletal accoutrements she liked to have on her on a day-to-day basis. without them, she felt practically naked. in fact, she might as well be naked, because the back of the accursed gown featured a round cutout! a cutout! one that showed skin! just obscene, honestly.

so, she was discomfited, even more than usual, but she refused to show it, knowing that the court at canaan house had a unnatural talent for spotting weakness. well, she tried to refuse to show it, at any rate. palamedes could tell she was bothered, and not just because he’d had to assure her several times that evening that, no, no one actually thought she was a harlot. it was in that pinched expression she'd sported all night, the one still on her face now.

harrowhark wanted to fidget with her bracelets, remembered she wasn't wearing them and picked off invisible (probably black) lint instead. when she was done, she said, “give up on septimus, sextus. her time is limited and your brilliance is better put to use under the endless resources of the first. imagine what could be accomplished.”

the warden hummed in agreement. “true, that. i could find a cure for dulcie. lovely idea, that.”

beneath the veil, she frowned. “i see you won’t be sensible in this matter.”

“if we just need someone to prod the grand duchess of the house of the first towards our eternally bright future, the second princess of ida would suffice. or you, even.”

“me?”

“you.”

“me?”

“yes, you. you’re one of the best necros of our generation–”

“i’m the best necro of our generation.”

“– and, unlike myself, you’re her usual flavor. although i suppose ianthe would also qualify as being her flavor, though one worries for those who might find her… flavorful.”

“the second princess of ida is not fit to make her home in a dumpster, let alone espouse griddle. she is an uncivilized brute masquerading as–” here, she’d been cut off by a loud braaahhhh of noise. across the ballroom, the orchestra conductor had signaled for the music to begin and someone with a brass instrument had been overeager. when the snickering had died down, those assembled watched as gideon led septimus towards the center of the room. moving on auto, gideon offered her left hand to the older woman. her right hand, she rested at her dance partner's hip.

with this, the ball had begun in earnest.

“you look amazing, dulcie. as always. the most beautiful person here, no doubt.”

gideon herself was also a vision to behold in her cohort uniform. of course, she’d never seen actual warfare, and never would despite her pleas. (“it’d be awkward to have to off a cousin i never met or something, anyways,” she’d told harrow last time she'd been denied. “no, thanks, i say.”) vain above all else, and without her father in attendance to tell her not to do anything too disrespectful, she’d opted to wear her pearl and gold uniform jacket unbuttoned, with a pair of dark sunglasses hanging from one of the buttonholes. beneath it, she wore a (buttoned, this time) article made of the ephemeral, gossamer, and see-through fabric the household preferred. the breeches looked as if they’d been painted on, as was the fashion, and on her feet she sported a pair of vintage (practically antiquated, really) boots—“oooh, doc martens!” according to augustine.

“hush. you know i think you’re the most handsome person around for miles and miles. don’t even try to say i’m on your level.” unable to help herself, the necromancer allowed an indulgent smile to appear on her face. that smile, combined with a gown of the palest blue, its waistline cut high to accent her magnificent bosom, and the coronet of wildflowers that rested atop her delicate curls, resulted in an overall effect that was alarming. gideon nearly choked when dulcinea added, “i adore you above all else, dearest.”

composing herself against all the odds, the ginger managed: “i can’t read minds, dulcie. if you don’t tell me things plain and simple, i’ll always be outta the loop.”

“have you tried?”

“reading minds? well, no. not really. but trust me, if there was anything interesting i could do, john would’ve sussed it out. appallingly, i seem to take after my mother a bit too much.” and it was true. much to her father’s displeasure, gideon seemed to take after the edenite commander much, much more than him. after five years of waiting for her to manifest the powers he was anticipating, the necrolord prime gave up. from then on, he popped in from time to time, but for the most part left the task of raising his progeny to the saints of joy and patience. if not for the eyes, golden and obnoxious, john gaius might’ve had cause to doubt that gideon was, after all, his kid. as it was, the eyes were irrefutable. the eyes, and the team of scientists invested in and present throughout her conception, gestation, and birth.

glancing down at the woman in her arms, gideon thought about adding a twirl or two to spice things up, but then remembered the last time she attempted that with dulcie and decided that an upset warden was not worth the effort. with a huff, she resigned herself to a dance bereft of the more vigorous moves that made things palatable. ah well, at least it wasn’t any more boring than dancing with harrow. (john had been insistent that both his children learned all the requisite skills for a successful, fulfilling life and as such, both gideon and harrow had been through a slew of etiquette and dancing classes together. you know, super useful shit.)

“darling, don’t be coy: everything about you is interesting.” and, prematurely cutting off gideon’s attempts at rebuff, she added, “now tell me, with which lovely creature will you be sharing the matrimonial bed in the coming months?”

the ball, the last of the season, wasn’t an engagement ball. it wasn’t! but, fuck gideon, it was, and everyone knew it. an announcement was expected before the night ended and matrimonial bliss was supposed to happen before gideon celebrated two decades of existence. gideon screwed her eyes tight in prayer to the unmerciful and ungracious god she called “dad.” he didn't deign to answer her prayers. she doubted whether he even bothered to listen to them.

“uhhh, well, you know… are you so sure you won’t consider my offer again?”

“i’m much too old for you, gideon. you need a vibrant, young thing as your partner. besides, i’m a hot commodity. if i take myself off the market, people will be crushed. i couldn’t bear to do that to them.”

“does this mean you gave sexpal the negative and not the affirmative again?”

“as i said: i’m a hot commodity.” she gave gideon a fragile smile, signaling the end of that train of thought. “listen, why don’t you tell me who else has caught your eye. i have a pretty good idea, myself, but i’d like to see if you’ve realized it first.”

gideon rubbed the back of her head with the hand that should’ve been resting on dulcinea’s shoulders and responded, “uhhh, corona is very nice, of course. hot too. plus, we get along really well. i think she’d be a good sport if i asked. but harrow said i’d be stupid to make a decision based on just looks.” gideon’s speech was almost always peppered with phrases like “harrow says” and “harrow thinks,” despite the claims that she didn't care what harrow said or what harrow thought.

the duchess of rhodes made vague noises of affirmation. “why don’t we give talking a rest now? i’m feeling a bit short of breath.” the apparatus that provided her with the additional oxygen her body needed rattled on the floor beside the pair. it had been put on a frame with wheels made of bones and was configured so that it could follow them around the dance floor as unobtrusively as possible, which was not very, because bones glued together via magic didn't make for very smooth wheels.

“of course! are you sure we don’t need to stop?”

the duchess tended to use a wheeled chair most of the time. in preparation for this ball, though, she'd told gideon that the last seven weeks had been spent resting and consuming the foul tonic her cavalier gave her without complaint. it worked, kinda; she had enough strength to get through at least one dance, but chatting for much longer would surely push her limits. dulcinea scanned the room for a slight figure, found her, pretended she hadn’t noticed her, hadn’t been looking for her, and said, “no, no. just keep holding me with those strong arms of yours and i’ll be just fine.”

camilla hect, cavalier primary of the sixth house, finished her third glass of champagne. she’d been making the rounds, being social where palamedes would not.

bowing to those around her, she indicated her impending departure. the adept she’d been conversing with, a debutante from the eighth house, pulled something from the reticule hanging from one wrist and thrust it at camilla.

“please accept this!”

confronted with the earnestness of someone in the flushes of their first love, camilla had no choice but to accept the proffered handkerchief. in the corners, embroidered with care by someone really awful at the art, were her initials. making her way back to the master warden, camilla sighed. unhesitatingly, uncomplainingly, the eighth house necromancer joined the long, long line of people that were in love with palamedes sextus’ cavalier.

“oh, good. i just spilled some champagne. could i use that hankie?” the warden asked, once she’d made it back to him.

simulated flames flickered from a cluster of candles on a side table between the warden and reverend daughter, adding ambiance, but not too much brightness, to the area. palamedes and camilla, observant as ever, had noticed around eight years ago that the lights were always just a bit too dim at canaan house. it was never clear who had control of the switches, but for a while, the situation became unhinged. some days, the lights were so bright it hurt even the skeletons, who didn't even have eyeballs. other days the lights were just straight up off, all of them, from the basement to the studies on the upper floors and onwards. one of the lyctors—the shrill, rose-headed one—bitched about the inconsistent nature of the overhead lights to one and all. from what camilla had noticed of the orphaned ninth house necromancer from that first year, she seemed too stoic and either unwilling or unable to complain about her situation for it to be her. the six house adept and cavalier couldn’t begin to imagine the ongoings of god and his saints, but once the second year of harrow’s wardship had started, it became clear that an argument of some sort had been won and the lights remained on, but perpetually dim.

the household staff had arranged for the stiff, high-backed chair that harrowhark preferred from the library to be placed at a jaunty angle next the table, as they always did. harrowhark had never asked them to perform this particular task, but the chair had appeared sometime during her first ball, and every single time since.

other chairs, heavily padded and much more comfortable, were scattered nearby, in case a rest was ever needed. (no one within the vicinity of the heir of drearburh ever seemed to be anything as gauche as tired, though.) palamedes, ever-brave, was seated in the armchair closest to harrowhark, looking lost and just a bit confused.

“no, warden. not this one.” camilla folded the handkerchief into a neat square and slipped it into a pocket. having grown up along the warden and having loved him for the better part of the last decade, camilla found she could predict his every thought and his every moment. that said, she’d prepared for his clumsiness, and from another pocket she conjured a much more sensible square of cotton.

“you’re a dear, camilla. what would i do without you?”

“you’ll never be without me, so we don’t have to indulge in such dark thoughts.”

interrupting, the reverend daughter added in an aside, “it’s likely he’d do something stupid like blow himself up.”

palamedes, unable to help himself, retorted, “excuse me?? which one of us forewent sustenance and rest for so long that she ended up in a calcified coma?”

“it was once!” harrowhark hissed back at him. “i would’ve been fine eventually. leave it to griddle to make a big deal out of such a small thing; there was no need to raise an alarm. now everyone knows and won't shut up.” she clucked her tongue in annoyance and shot a glance at the imperial heir, now partnered with a tall but otherwise nondescript member of her court.

this elicited a soft chuckle from palamedes. "ninth, this is the first time i've ever brought up the... incident," he said, all false innocence. he shared a look with his cavalier, who raised a singular eyebrow and smirked.

“her divine highness is expected to make a decision before the conclusion of the night, reverend daughter.”

“i’m well aware, hect. everyone is aware.”

“who do you think she’ll choose?”

“the seventh and the older tridentarius are supposed to be strong contenders, but i’ve been telling sextus that he is, in fact, the best choice.”

“... ninth, she doesn’t like men.”

“what does that have to do with anything? this is about the future of the empire, not her personal preferences. your adept is the obvious choice.”

“yeah, obvious is not what i’d call that.”

“well, who else could it be?” harrowhark asked, gesticulating in a wild manner as camilla succeeded more and more in agitating her.

“the second is a dunce and a prude who’d send griddle into the depths of despair. the third is beautiful but very much not a necromancer, so the chances of necromantic heirs are not ideal, the fourth is a CHILD, the seventh is ill, and the eighth is a jar of rancid mayonnaise masquerading as a human being.”

abigail pent, the fifth house heir, was (as everyone could very well tell) disgustingly in love with and married to her cavalier; even harrowhark couldn’t be ill-natured enough to break them apart, even if the empire called for it.

“have you considered…” here, camilla paused for dramatic effect. “... yourself?”

“again with this? your warden already made this absurd suggestion, though i was interrupted before i could point out to him what an unmitigated disaster that union would be. regardless, i’m returning to drearbruh soon.”

palamedes, unsure what to do with his hands now that they were once again free, picked up a practically desiccated digestive biscuit—one of many placed haphazardly on all the side tables within a meter of their usual corner, as if the person placing them there was in a rush and didn’t want to be caught doing something nice—realized his error, and grabbed another glass of champagne from one of the skeletons circulating around the room instead. with supreme care, since camilla had given him “that look,” he took one sip and then another. after the third sip, he told the reverend daughter, “just take her with you.”

“hear, hear. what a fantastic idea, warden.” camilla took his free hand and brought it to her lips. palamedes blushed.

“not in public, dear.”

camilla smiled, and told him, “very well, very well,” before she became overcome with the desire to continue embarrassing him and tacked on a whispered “my love” before letting go of his hand.

harrowhark ignored the exchange. “take her? to drearburh? what a lark. i’d sooner relinquish command of drearburh to the eighth than allow griddle to sully that sanctified space.” for once, her mask of impassiveness failed her and longing could be glimpsed amongst the furrow of her brow and the set of her lips for the briefest of moments.

the master warden and his partner paid her the proper respect and ignored her show of human emotions. camilla, tactful as ever, changed the subject.

the hours passed, as they always did, in a blur of sights and sounds that harrowhark attempted to ignore. even after almost a decade at the house of the first, she still had a difficult time anchoring herself outside the radius of her dim corner and her steadfast companions. for that reason, she failed to notice the danger that lurked until it arrived and harrumphed at her. she turned towards the noise.

“tridentarius.”

“harry, darling! there you are. i’ve been looking all over for you.”

("must not've been looking that hard. we're always in this corner." "be nice, cam.")

“whatever for?” the reverend daughter drawled, trying not to rise to the bait.

“dance with me, harry.”

ianthe tridentarius, second daughter of ida, moved towards harrowhark and positioned herself mere inches from the other girl. from the corner of her eye, harrowhark could see palamedes and camilla grimacing. within seconds, they’d removed themselves from the situation.

“take a seat, tridentarius.”

“no, i don’t think i will,” she responded, not moving from her spot.

their majesties, the monarchs of ida, upon discovering the blessing of twins, became insistent on having a matched pair. it might’ve worked, if the twins weren’t as different from each other as it was possible for identical twins to be. where the crown princess was buxom and bright, with skin that relished the attention of dominicus, her sister was pinched and pallid, often burning to a crisp during her sojourns to the first.

over the years, the sisters had won small concessions from their parents. they didn’t have to dress the same anymore, but certain themes, certain motifs had to be observed. this time, the topic du jour was stolas. harrowhark thought someone had ordered too much fabric for the long, pleated dress, and eschewing rational thought, decided to use all of it anyways. the result was a princess drowning in her own clothes, hardly the height of sophistication.

“do you know what your problem is, nonagesimus?”

“no, but i expect you’ll soon tell me.”

“you’re no fun. you sit here night after night, denying yourself the… pleasures of the flesh. if i were the necrolord’s favored ward, i’d take full advantage of all the status offered.”

harrowhark made no response. ianthe also made no response, and the two engaged in a staring contest that ended when the blonde plopped herself into the other’s lap and settled her arms around harrowhark. ("look, harry. i took a seat!") the younger necromancer made feeble attempts to push the other off while ianthe laughed.

“there are easier ways to get your hands on me, harry. all you have to do is ask.”

“don’t be crass, third. i don’t want anything from you.”

ianthe leaned forward, her lips at the edge of harrowhark’s ears. “don’t lie, darling. you and i? we fascinate each other. it’s only a matter of time.”

“i think not.”

harrowhark placed a single finger against ianthe's forehead and pushed with all her might. ianthe leaned in again, swatting the finger away without breaking eye contact. this time, harrow had the thought that she might do the unthinkable. but before things could get too raunchy, the pair were interrupted.

"we just wanted to tell you how excited we are for you girls!" an older man told her, his eyes crinkled in utter delight as he shook one of her small hands with both of his—quinn, she recalled. the fifth house cavalier. "abigail wanted to come over herself, but she's feeling a bit sleep-deprived so she wandered off to bed right after the announcement had been made. told me to make sure i give both of you double the hugs tonight. lost the grand duchess in the crowd, so i decided to make my way to you first. don't know how she can sleep with such jolly news, though! what a night!" he blinked and realized the second princess of ida was still sprawled across harrowhark's lap. she realized he was confused about the seating arrangement but didn't care to further elucidate. she'd interacted with him enough to know that he'd be too polite to say anything anyways and she had more important things to be concerned about.  

the ball had ended. a decision had been made. muddled thoughts ran through her mind. she found herself hoping both that gideon had made the right choice and that the master warden wouldn't flaunt his new relationship around her. she craned her neck around ianthe to look for palamedes, who was standing at the far side of the ballroom, near the stairs, his cavalier at his side. both raised a hand in acknowledgement of harrowhark and smiled broadly. camilla even flashed her a pair of thumbs, a gesture gideon once assured her was good—congratulatory, even. but why were they congratulating her??

moments later, her thoughts coalesced, presenting her with an unwanted resolution. she stood abruptly, having succeeded somehow in pushing ianthe off her lap and tossing her to the ground where she belonged. both women had noticed that someone—someone beefy and tall and ginger—was approaching.

harrowhark valiantly fought the urge to vomit when the heir to the empire of the nine came to stop before her, got down on one knee and asked, “harrowhark nonagesimus, reverend daughter of the house of the ninth, soon to be reverend lady, will you marry me?” she succeeded, but not without effort.

around her, the crowd exploded into a feverish combination of celebration and confusion. no one, with perhaps the exception of the sixth house pair, had even considered this result. among this frenzy, harrowhark found herself uttering a singular grunt in response to the question, then fainting.

gideon caught her, as she always caught her, and told the crowd around them, “that’s a 'yes.' trust me, it doesn’t seem like it, but i speak fluent nonagesimus. she made the same response last time i interrupted her studying to ask her to explore the basement with me. teacher said it was haunted by wouldn’t tell us more, so of course we had to go check it out. we didn’t really find much down there, but then the gloom mistress neglected to tell me she hadn’t eaten in, like, a long while, so she ended up calcified and that was an entire thing. so, yeah, i’m pretty sure that was a ‘yes’ from her.”

finally realizing she was rambling, gideon forced herself to stop. she stood up, harrowhark cradled in her arms, her black on black attire at strong contrast to gideon’s pearl and gold. the heir to the empire, its second most important figure, the hope of its future, looked dazed. she flashed those around her a broad grin.

the cheers and claps grew hysterically louder.

the reverend daughter woke up in the room god had set aside for her eight years ago, still dressed and painted. the room was larger than she liked, and had been furnished with a desk set, several bookshelves, and a large, plush bed she’d had replaced with something from home. through a door to the left of the desk, there was an  ensuite that boasted both a sonic and a traditional bathtub. (she’d never used the bathtub. soaking in water made her feel… untethered.) each of the windows had been fitted with blackout curtains that had remained more or less closed since her arrival. for ambiance, she’d added a number of skeletal baubles here and there. across the doorframe, an approximation of the black chain that sat atop the anastasian monument back on drearburh made from proximal phalanges helped stave away the worst of the homesickness.  

a quick survey of her surroundings revealed that someone much too large for her small bed was slumped across the bottom half, also still dressed in her formal attire, snoring with abandon. at some point, that someone must’ve removed her veil for her. she found it crumpled on the floor and supposed that being saved from death via asphyxiation was fine and all, but she wished her lace veil, an anastasian heirloom, hadn’t been disrespected so. 

harrowhark kicked gideon in the face. there was a decent amount of rancor in the kick, but little to no strength. 

“ugghh—what was that for, bone bitch?”

ignoring the question, harrowhark hissed, “get out .”

“uhh, no.” gideon rubbed her nose, then got up from the bed and stretched, flexing her arms this way and that way for no apparent reason.

“get out!”

“look, my macabre missus—”

“do not call me that! i am not your missus. and i never shall be!” gideon, during one of their arguments just last month, had suggested that perhaps eight years of being mentored (if you could call it that) by the saint of joy had had a perceptible effect on harrowhark’s speech patterns—she claimed she could practically see the italicizations and exclamation marks, but harrowhark thought it was nonsense.   

gideon replied, “yeah, about that… i don’t think you have a choice. it’s only been a few hours, but jod already found out and he’s fucking ecstatic about it. he’s planning the wedding already. well, i think he told mercymorn to plan the wedding, but same diff.”

here, harrowhark screamed.

“griddle, you utter fool. you were supposed to choose sextus! it was simple!”

(“i was? it was?”)

gideon grabbed the desk chair and turned it around before plopping on it, her arms resting on the backrest. the corners of her lips turned down just a bit, which caused pangs within harrowhark that she tried to ignore.

“would it be so bad, harrow? to be married to me?”

“yes!” the response had been quiet, but venomous. 

“why…? harrow, why…?” gideon’s voice cracked on the second “why.”

the smaller woman—the smaller girl, really—flinched. pelleamena, her mother, had a multitude of rules for life on drearburh. from her first day on the ninth to her last, harrowhark lived a regimented existence. but one rule had been held above the others: ninth house secrets could never be discussed, save for in the depths of cold, miserable, salted water. years later, sitting on her miserable slab of a cot, in her darkened room, with gideon looking at her, hurt and despondent, harrowhark wondered if the time had come, if it was go time at last. 

she took a series of stuttering breaths, then: “griddle, you take baths, don’t you?”

the redhead narrowed her eyes at the non sequitur. “sometimes. this is important because…?”

“do you ever use those”—the dour nunlet waved her right hand around dismissively—“epsom salts or what have you?”

“whenever i’ve had a really bad day at the gym. again, you need this info because…?”

“table salt would work too, i suppose, but since we already have the epsom salt, let’s use that.”

“did i fuck up? did you hit your head before i caught you?”

resolved, harrowhark threw the blankets aside and shimmied out of bed. she opened the door leading out of the room and motioned for gideon to leave.

“go get the salt.”

“harr—”

“go get the salt and i will explain everything.” as an afterthought: “please.”

it was the “please” that convinced gideon. she’d never heard it directed towards her before. to her father, to his saints, even to the skeletons, yes. but until now, she’d not been one of the chosen few. one nod, then another. 

“ok. sure. i’ll be right back. you have a preference for flavor? i got, like, all of them. pro sent me one of those, like, sampler sets last time.” 

“griddle, i don’t fucking care. just get me some blasted salt.”

when gideon returned to the room, harrow was missing. 

“that little fuck!”

“excuse you, i’m in the bathroom.”

gideon maneuvered her way to the other door and pushed it open with one foot. “harrow, why the fuck are you sitting on the floor in the dark?”

a shrug. “look, do you have the epsom salt or not?”

gideon used her chin to bring attention to the bags clustered in her arms. she told harrow, “i know you said you don’t care, but the flavors are important. the right one has to be used or the mood is just fucked.”

harrow rolled her eyes. underneath her breath, low enough that gideon could pretend she hadn’t heard, she muttered, “it truly does not matter to me if the mood is fucked or not. it’s not as if the mood is going to get any better from here, that’s for certain.” 

before gideon could make a suggestion, harrow  grabbed a bag at random and dumped the contents into the bathtub.

“you know, you really didn’t need to use that much.”

the scent of roses filled the air and harrow sneezed. perhaps gideon should’ve just brought the plain epsom salt. too bad. the salt had been spilled, such as it was, and she wasn’t going to climb into the tub and corral it back into the bag. 

harrow turned on the water, just the cold tap at first. at gideon’s urging, she nudged the hot knob just a smidge and managed to create lukewarm water. as the water rose millimeter by millimeter, harrow moved back into the main room, grabbed some gross knuckles that had been henceforth residing in a mosaic above her desk and threw them onto the floor. from each segment of bone, a skeleton grew. in silent unison, they moved towards the outer door and stood there, a set of forbidding and dour guards. 

during the time gideon had left and returned, harrow had changed out of the gown and into a worn, long-sleeved shirt and leggings, both black. gideon noticed that she’d put back on the morbid armor that comforted her: a corset of bones enveloped her torso, a collar of solid, fused bone rested on her collarbones, and bangles made from various bits clinked as she moved around the bathroom, gathering towels and other necessities. 

gideon, too, had changed. the shirt she’d tugged on had had sleeves at some point. by the time she’d found it in a chest in the abandoned third quarters, the sleeves had already said their good-byes to the rest of the garment. the faded words on the chest read: FISH FEAR ME, WOMEN WANT ME. harrow hated that shirt, and it was for that very reason that gideon had put it on. underneath the shirt, she wore a pair of longish, netted shorts, the waistband folded over a few times even though there was nothing wrong with the fit—“it’s for the aesthetic, dumbnuts.” 

realizing harrow had zoned out, gideon clapped her hands together and succeeded in startling her out of whatever reverie she’d been in. the necromancer looked fraught and… almost scared. gideon had never seen harrow scared before. not even after mercy had yelled at her for messing up a theorem when she was ten and a half and fresh to canaan house and the expectations of the everlasting emperor-god and his hands. this was all becoming just a bit too much for gideon. 

“nonagesimus, is everything ok?”

“no, griddle. everything is not ok. everything has never been ok.” pointing to the half-filled tub, harrow demanded, “get in.”

she herself sat on the edge of the tub, testing the temperature with her toes. gideon had no intention of pussyfooting it, so she slid straight into the tub. the abrupt movement caused a wave of water to splash onto harrow, wetting her from the knees down. this seemed to be encouragement enough for her to commit herself to the dunk. 

the two sat in awkward silence while water continued to stream out of the faucet, harrow on one far end, gideon on the other. once the upper limits of the bathtub had been reached, gideon reached over and cut off the flow. 

“the ninth house has a secret, griddle,” said harrow. “no one knows about it, save myself and my blood relations, of which, as you are aware, only i remain.” her voice was calm, devoid of emotion and unnatural.

“i think we both know there’s a storm, an avalanche waiting. the news i must deliver, the secret that must see the light, so to speak, cannot be denied. you know that when i was brought here eight years ago, it was because god himself had surveyed the situation on drearburh and deemed it unsuitable. i was the only  child left on the planet. that… that wasn’t because of some freak accident, as all have been led to believe.”

gideon blinked. “but it was some, like, majorly contagious bug, though. wasn’t it?”

harrow pulled her knees forward, hugging them to her chest before continuing: “mother always insisted that secrets could only be told in the dark, in salted water. though she is no longer beside me, guiding me, i feel obligated to respect her rules. 

“griddle, it was not a bug. it was a war crime. my parents were both necromancers, you see. they’d tried a number of times to produce a viable heir, but failed again and again. we never had the type of resources that other houses had. but we did, in our own way, have the resources needed to ensure the continuation of the locked tomb line, one that had gone back all the way to anastasia herself.

“we had the resources,” she repeated, “as well as the desperation to make use of them.” by now, the emotion had returned to her voice, and that emotion was anguish. waves and waves of anguish. 

gideon, though not a necro herself, had been raised on canaan house under the tutelage of some of the most powerful adepts in existence. she didn’t understand all of the mumbo jumbo, but she understood enough to become nervous. 

“harrow, do you mean… please tell me i’m misunderstanding.”

harrow gave her companion a wry, pathetic smile. “i suspect you’re not that much of an idiot after all, griddle. the bug was, in fact, a very concentrated dose of organophosophates, pumped through the cooling system into the nursery. the thanergenic bloom was tremendous. my parents didn’t have to worry about whether or not they could bring  a child—a suitably necromantic child—to term this time.”

gideon couldn’t bear to hear more of this terrible, no good, very bad confession. she plunged herself beneath the water and waited until her lungs protested for air. with a gasp, she joined harrowhark in the world above. 

things made sense now, she realized. she’d always thought it was weird that harrow always insisted on being called “harrowhark.” it was such a portentous name, one that shouldn’t have been bestowed onto a precious, beloved child. she understood, in that moment, that harrow believed the name to be appropriate, that she, the child born of great sacrifice, was some whack and evil symbol of despair. the ninth house necromancer was mean, sure. spiteful, even. but evil? no. 

gideon was having a hard time reconciling the information she’d been presented with and the person she’d grown up alongside, the person she dragged to lunch at one on the dot each afternoon, after their morning lessons had been completed, the person she saw morph from a lonesome, gaunt child into a somewhat self-assured adept who’d even managed to make a friend or two. 

harrow had been waiting patiently for a response. when none came, she rested her head on her knees and said, her voice slightly muffled, “i have been aware, since i was young, about how i was created. i am exactly two hundred sons and daughters of my house, griddle—i am the whole generation of the ninth. i came into this world a necromancer at the expense of drearburh’s future—because there is no future without me… i am an abomination. that’s why, griddle. i cannot, in good conscience, tie you to me.” 

over the course of the slow, plodding speech, her voice had gotten smaller and smaller, until gideon struggled to catch those last three words and the wistfulness in them, the hope of an “us” instead of just one child burdened with too much guilt. 

“harrow— harrowhark, you aren’t an abominati—”

“don’t! don’t dare diminish the sacrifices of those two hundred boys and girls. i am an abomination, a war crime. i should not exist! and when the time came for me to make my own sacrifice, i was a coward. i couldn’t do it. i attempted to open the tomb, to see if whatever was inside was worth the deaths of an entire generation of children. i couldn’t get in, however hard i tried. i am the most powerful necromancer to grace the halls of drearburh and i couldn’t even move a stupid rock. it was all for nothing.” this speech had been said in a fraught manner, in contrast to the one that preceded it, the words coming faster and faster until they spilled almost without pause. 

“when my parents found out what i’d attempted to do, they were kind. they, too, realized how badly we’d failed the ninth house. they helped me tie my noose, said their farewells, and left me first. i should’ve joined them. but… like i said, i was a coward. crux found me, still holding the noose, sobbing for perhaps the first time ever. he petitioned the first for assistance, and here i am.”

“ok, ok. sure you’re an abomination or whatever. but, harrowhark, you didn’t do anything. you aren’t at fault.” gideon’s voice broke, and she couldn’t help herself. she rushed towards harrow and gathered her into her arms, needless of the water making its way onto the bathroom floor. “harrow, i’m so bloody sorry.”

harrow brought her head upright and her dark, despairing eyes connected with gideon’s bright, golden ones. she fought to escape from the embrace and gideon hugged her all the harder. 

“i exist because my parents couldn’t bear to fail anastasia and i continue to exist because i couldn’t bear to follow them.”

“look, you little bone-obsessed freak, i don’t care what you think, because i’m god’s miracle child, the future of this stupid little empire, and what i think supercedes what you think.” 

gideon stopped the ninth house nun from responding with an aggressive finger to the lips. 

“i think that you’re a mean, spiteful, and wretched little creature that my own dad loves more than me, but you’re also my only friend, harrow. my only real friend. you weren’t even fucking born when your parents made their genocidal decision. you didn’t consent to their stupid plan. you aren’t complicit! so stop being so fucking stupid and shit… cause i— i am undone without you.”

oops, that last bit was more embarrassing than gideon anticipated, but nothing could be done now. the words had been said and she figured she might as well go all the way. before she could change her mind, gideon replaced the finger on harrow’s lips with her own. 

the kiss was awkward—too wet and a little bitter from the epsom salt and smudged greasepaint, with a clash of teeth that caused a sharp clang of pain. in other words, perfect. two seconds passed, then three more before the adrenaline died down and the both of them relaxed.

gideon moved her hands up to cradle harrow’s face.

harrow shuddered and tears streamed down her face, mingling with the skullpaint and making the aftertaste of each successive kiss even worse, but neither she nor gideon stopped. they’d been orbiting each other almost their entire lives, the unresolved, seemingly unrequited feelings growing more and more uncontainable. but now, now it was resolved. now it was requited. now their lives could begin in earnest. 

finally, after having tasted her fill of happiness, gideon leaned back and told her friend, her love, “harrowhark, i know you aren’t my necro and i’m not your cav. but how about this? how about one flesh, one end?”

it was a fey, romantic conceit. necros and cavs didn’t have relationships like that. not usually, anyways. still, gideon didn’t want to be connected to harrow in some ephemeral manner, but here and now in the flesh and after the death of the flesh, harrow’s hand in hers as they rose from their graves when the last trump sounded. what she wanted was everything that that phrase, one uttered for thousands upon thousands of years, between pairs of people bound to each other forevermore, promised. 

the ninth house necromancer flushed and pressed her lips together, as if unwilling to let the words spill from them. 

“say it, you major loser: one flesh, one end.”

“one flesh, one— one end.” she’d fumbled it a bit, but the sentiment remained the same. 

“ok, i don’t know about you, but i fucking hate wet clothes and the taste of epsom salt—never tasted it before today, and never intend to taste it ever again, by the way. let’s get the fuck outta here.”

(“would’ve thought you’d been stupid enough to see if it tasted like table salt.” “no, nonagesimus, i’m stupid but not that stupid.”)

the marriage celebration was held three months later, after sufficient time had been given to the restoration efforts on the ninth house. in her absence, her erstwhile marshall—crux,  a decrepit old man that gideon hated on sight—had held the fort as best as possible. the buildings harrowhark remembered from her youth still stood, and some of them didn’t even look that bad. a number of nuns and other penitents had done the shuffle off the mortal coil, though, leaving the ninth barer than ever before. as a gift, the emperor thawed out a bunch of bodies he kept on reserve and had them shipped off to drearburh. gideon had no idea where—or why!—her father had kept the ice lollies, and both she and harrow weren’t sure they wanted to know, really. 

harrow had spent that first month on the distant planet she’d been born on, helping people acclimate to their new situations. the second month she spent getting her affairs in order. gideon wanted to join her, but augustine pumped the brakes on that train of thought real fast. according to him, proprieties had to be considered and she hadn’t been allowed to go off-world until the week before their hand-fasting. when she finally landed on the ninth, harrow  greeted her with a brief nod of the head, then disappeared into the depths of the castle to continue working.

gideon spent the remainder of the week moping, wandering around drearburh introducing herself to the newly awakened as “the only reason you’re alive again” before stumbling upon a ridiculous sword in the tombs beneath the surface of the planet. with very reluctant permission from crux, gideon took the two-hander for herself and started sparring with harrow’s captain, someone too old and ragged-looking to be as fierce as gideon found her to be. harrow was too busy for her, so she spent her days getting her ass kicked by an ancient, practically one-legged nun. (she would probably never admit it, but it was the most fun she’d ever had.)  

at last, the appointed time came and they were joined in holy (dad-ly!) matrimony. after the officiant, an exuberant abigail pent who’d somehow managed to convince one of god’s hands to let her be a part of the nuptials, had pronounced them married, the two shuffled off for commemorative photos. at a later date, using the photos as reference, coins would be minted with gideon’s likeness on one side and harrow’s on the other, for distribution across the nine houses.

the emperor, as usual, had better things to do than attend the union of his daughter and his ward. instead, he sent the saints of patience and joy. it was, after all, these two who had borne the brunt of raising gideon and harrow over the years. and now, it was these two standing behind gideon and harrow, augustine’s arm around gideon and mercymorn’s hand resting on harrow’s shoulder. all four were stiff and teetering on varying degrees of unhappiness. a worse example of a happy family was not going to be found. 

“smile!” the photographer told them. behind him, quinn, bracketed by his charges, a necro and cav set of punks from the fourth that trembled with barely contained excitement, snapped away with his own camera. 

the photographer directed them into a series of poses, each one worse than the one before. pushed to her limits with the most recent pose, mercymorn told augustine, “get your fucking hand off of my waist before i end you.”

“i’ll end you first, you wretch. i don’t even think you’re even capable of taking me one-on-one,” he said with a jovial smile. he hadn’t bothered to modulate his voice and the photographer—the official one, not quinn—jumped in alarm.

“ignore them,” harrow told him, her voice even more imperious than usual, now that she was back on hometurf. “and hurry it up. i doubt you wish to be here any longer than we do.”

“ignore her,” gideon added and waved him on.

the reverend lady of drearburh had been right—mercymorn and augustine had spent the entire event arguing, the tension becoming more and more palpable as morning moved into afternoon and then evening. after the requisite amount of photos were taken, the photographer took his leave, not even bothering to be polite about it.

“awful man!” that was mercymorn, on her way to leave herself. “good riddance, infants. do try not to call me ever. i will not answer.”

harrow gave her a formal bow and said, “you were a good mother. thank you.”

“hah! you’re a nasty little liar. whatever, at least you know the theorems back and forth now. amazing for a three year old, really.”

quinn and his necromancer, along with the two fourth children, waited for patience and joy to leave then ambushed the newlyweds with a group hug. harrow endured the ordeal with her usual stoicism. she even refrained from commenting when abigail pressed her mouth to the place where her nose met her frontal sinus and when magnus ruffled her hair. 

when the sixth house pair and the duchess of rhodes approached, harrow took the out. “excuse me,” she told the fifth house. they turned their attention to gideon—who, her wife noticed, was flexing her biceps for the oohing and ahhing children. 

“we both owe dulcie fifty marks each. we both didn’t think you two would realize it in time,” camilla told her, after greetings had been exchanged.

the duchess, now one hundred marks richer, wheeled herself to the front of the trio and told harrow smugly, “it’s because i’m older and wiser. that’s how i figured it out.” as an afterthought: “the romance novels i’ve been devouring helped too, i suppose.” 

“rude,” was all harrow could say. septimus shrugged. since she’d been in the chair today, the wheeled frame for her oxygen tank wasn’t needed. instead, it’d just been strapped to the back of the chair. a shame, because harrow was annoyed enough to manipulate the bone wheels into smoothness, without or without permission. she suspected that the seventh always denied her helpful overtures because she found the expression harrow made each time she heard the wheels in action hilarious.

the destination wedding, as augustine had taken to calling it, had not been well-attended, despite the guest of honor being the illuminated grand duchess of the house of the first herself. drearburh wasn’t that popular of a destination, it seemed. harrow didn’t mind. her friends had attended. 

yes, friends. it’d taken some time for her to reconcile herself with the idea of having friends. both palamedes and camilla had raised their stupid eyebrows—one each, of course, the left on the necromancer and the right on the cavalier—when she broached the subject with them. 

palamedes was the one to reassure her: “reverend daughter, we’ve been friends for years… at least five, maybe six?” 

mortified, she  tried to shut down the teasing before it could get too bad with a threat to end their supposed yearslong friendship right then and there, but the attempt failed. even gideon threw in a few jabs now and then. it was, according to her “friends,” low-hanging fruit. 

harrow did not need anyone else at her wedding, but people came anyway, heedless of her needs. the crown princess of ida attended, with her sister’s cavalier, but not her sister. ianthe did send a garish, gilded present though—a chamberpot, with a terse note taped to the lid. harrow and gideon had not even a single intention of using it. crux could put it anywhere he wished, so long as they didn’t have to see it. besides the third house duo, a smattering of representatives from other houses also made an appearance. 

the second sent an entire cadre of soldiers, all of them captains or higher for some bizarre, ceremonial reason. the fifth came with what seemed to be half their entire population, as well as the fourth house pair, and the seventh sent the duchess of rhodes, plus her cav and her entire medical team. but the eighth failed to send even just one person. the ninth house was cursed, they claimed. unless the celebrations took place on the first, the eighth house made a solemn vow to remain steadfast in their refusal. the emperor suggested a change of venue, but harrow had wanted drearburh and so drearburh it was. in the end, no one was upset about the lack of eighth house cavs, not even its founder. 

(“i hate that washed-out aberration ! we should just nuke that entire planet. something went wrong there. i’ll start over, i don’t care!!”)

harrow allowed for a few more good-natured jokes and then steered the conversation away from her and gideon’s relationship. soon, a spirited conversation had begun amongst the trio before her. palamedes was in the midst of writing a sequel for some sordid novel septimus loaned him. camilla interjected with her own suggestions. harrow had nothing to add, and was content to enjoy the moment. 

later, after all the guests had left, and gideon and harrow were finally, blessedly alone for once, harrow held gideon’s large hands in hers, palms up, and kissed each fingertip with reverence.

“griddle, first flower of my heart. you are a triumph and it will be my honor to be yours, now and ever after.” then, she sealed the solemn vow with a gentle kiss on the lips, one less wet, less bitter, and less painful than the first one they’d shared, but just as perfect. 

after she’d pulled away, she asked the question that had been at the back of her skull: “why did you choose me that night, griddle?”

“it was always going to be you, i think. though to be honest, i was going to choose corona, but then i looked over and her repulsive twin was draped all over you and it looked like something was going on and it hurt and i panicked. i didn’t mean to, but i ended up just blurting out your name and… well, here we are, married.”

harrowhark looked up into amber eyes. “was it worth it? would you do it again?”

“one flesh, one end, bitch,” gideon promised her.