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It is too early.
There are still some hours before Mondstadt begins to stir. First light is still but a dream away for most.
But Jean is awake and putting her hair up by candlelight. And Eula is awake, silently watching the way Jean’s back moves as she pulls the ribbon tight. There is only the cloak left before Jean would be ready to go; Eula knows Jean’s routine all too well by now.
The familiar weight is back. It sits daintily, like it always does, at the base of Eula’s chest. It is a weight that feels almost fragile – like if she so much as breathed too deeply, something would break. And for some reason, that scares her.
So, she resigns herself to quietly watching Jean run a finger along the collar of her greaves before standing up. Eula hates the part of her that notes how her bed feels just a little too large all of a sudden.
Jean finally notices that Eula is awake when she stretches her back. Surprise flits across her face before she settles on a sheepish expression.
“Did I wake you?” Jean asks.
Eula shakes her head. “I’ve never been good with sleeping for long stretches at a time.”
Jean smiles, and it is as if the world became just a bit brighter. She asks, “Did you at least have a good night’s rest?”
Eula responds with a pointed look. It draws a good chuckle from Jean, which in turn makes the corner Eula’s mouth quirk.
The almost-smile dies when Jean picks up her cloak.
“I should go,” says Jean, more to herself than to Eula.
Eula simply nods in response, not quite trusting that words would not betray her. The heaviness in her chest has started bubbling up her throat.
Pl—
She clears her throat. It gives Jean pause at the last minute.
Ple—
Instead, Eula says, “You should put your cloak on before you go. It is a cold morning. My victory would be meaningless if I bested you while you laboured under illness.”
But Jean catches the way Eula’s gaze is fixed on her neck and shoulders, and immediately understands. Eula turns away just as Jean starts pulling the garment on.
A soft creak, the smallest gust of cold morning’s air, and Jean is gone.
Eula breathes, long and deep. There is a still a tickle at the base of her throat but it is much easier to ignore now that she is alone.
Again, she could not bring herself to give shape to such burdensome words. They continue to sit heavy in her chest. Perhaps she will finally give in and say them another time but today is not that day.
“Please, don’t leave me.”
Jean whispers those words against the back of Eula’s hand while Eula is asleep. She is ashamed to say such selfish words but the fear that she may be out of time is much greater.
She had not meant to say them, of course; they simply tumbled carelessly past her lips. But since the damage has already been done, the most selfish parts of her could not help but hope Eula heard them all the same.
Eula’s hand is cold in hers. They have been cold for far too long. Jean fears they would never be warm again. It is that same fear that had pulled those words out of her.
Ple—
Jean leans her forehead against Eula’s hand, at a loss of what to do. It scares her. After all that she has accomplished— After all that she had willingly given up so that she may be of service… Why is it that she still finds herself helpless?
Pl—
“Jean.”
Eula’s voice is hoarse from disuse. She clears her throat and tries again.
“Jean,” she chides, “you are going to catch a cold if you keep staying the night in a hospital wing chair.”
It makes Jean chuckle. Of course the first thing Eula would do is give her a scolding.
“How long was I asleep this time?” asks Eula.
“Nearly a week,” answers Jean. “You were in and out quite a bit, but never fully conscious.”
Eula hums as she considers the information. She finally decides, “Not as bad as the episode three months ago, then.”
A hollow laugh. Jean wishes that Eula would stop making light of the situation.
“I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do,” confesses Jean. “I’ve mended countless wounds and even saved a few lives, and here you are slipping through my fingers.”
Eula shakes her head and withdraws her hand from Jean’s. The arm that once swung a claymore so effortlessly trembles as it reaches up to cup Jean’s cheek.
“You are a quite a dull one, aren’t you?” Eula berates, though her tone is fond. The pad of her thumb brushes deliberate, slow strokes at Jean’s cheekbone.
“You tried your best. It is as Barbara said: your Vision treats injuries, not maladies.”
Jean’s hand finds Eula’s once again and presses it harder against her cheek.
“I wish there is more time,” says Jean.
“So do I,” says Eula.
They remain as they are, allowing silence to fill the space between them. It reminds Jean of the early mornings they shared in the years gone by.
“Jean?” comes Eula’s voice.
“Yes?”
“The time we had,” Eula starts. The tense used is not lost on Jean. “The time we had together… were you happy?”
Jean’s voice catches when she answers. “Yes.”
“Good,” declares Eula. It is obvious to Jean how simply carrying on the conversation has tired her. “Then my vengeance is complete.”
There is a self-satisfied smirk on Eula’s face. It moves Jean to reciprocate with a smile of her own.
“Enough of such whimsical prattle; we talk about the past as if we are old women. Tell me something else.”
And so Jean does. She tells Eula of a great many things: things big and small; the goings-on of their shared home as well as news of faraway lands. She talks and watches as Eula stubbornly tries to stave off sleep, interjecting every now and then to stay awake. Jean continues even after Eula’s unfocused mmhmm-s turn into quiet breathing – just so that Eula knows that she is near.
Jean, too, drifts off just as Mondstadt starts to stir at first light. She falls asleep speaking of a shared future that is but a faraway dream.
Is it too late?