Archive of Our Own

Y'know, I hope you're a gal because I just realized somethin about myself - I really like gals.

Is that so? Just gals?

I think so.

A few seconds that Monty impatiently counts out with flicks of her tail go by quite slowly before the response appears on her gold skin. I can be a gal.

Something about it warms her, even in her confusion. What does that mean?

I can be anything, really.

You a changeling?

Maybe.

Monty grins. What's your name, gal?

Sorry, I still can't tell you. I couldn't tell you last time and I can't tell you when you eventually ask again.

Man, her soulmate is stiff for a thirteen year old, but Monty chuckles anyway. It had been a bit of a joke between them ever since they both learned to scribble in Common, but it always surprised Monty what they were or weren't hush hush about, their name still being one of them.

Alright. Then I won't share mine til you do. Fair?

Fair.

–

"Hey - Nyx? What language is this?"

He turns and looks at her, eyebrow raised on his stern dwarf face, before staring at her arm as the writing continues to scribble. "Looks like Goblin - thought your soulmate was a lizard or dragon or something?"

She stares at it, brow furrowed. Draconic and Common were the usual, the Goblin had only shown up recently. There were diagrams too, sketches of weird shapes that she had never seen before, at least in person. "So that would make this goblin tech… I think they're teaching themselves the language."

"Huh," he says, then turns away like that was that. Frankly, she does too. She still hadn't phased out of partner work, but she could tell Nyx was tired of having her around. Why he wore that face for training when it’s the one that didn't have the patience for it is beyond her.

It’s considered bad form to write to a soulmate during training, but they aren't tracking a real mark anyway...and honestly this part is so boring.

What are you, five? She draws an arrow pointing to the diagram that is now filled with a sketchy color that she can't fully rule out as crayon.

A beat and then something in Draconic (a curse, she thinks) followed by, I'm extremely mature for my age.

Uh-huh.

Bully.

She stifles a laugh. So what's all this?

I'll tell you when I know more, gotta learn before you teach and all that. Unless you wanna tell me your name in exchange for some early lessons?

Aren't you funny.

"Eyes up, rookie," Nyx calls, and she can see their faux-mark is on the move. She rolls her sleeve down, touches her mouth to make sure she isn't smiling, and grabs her dagger.

–

"You still don't know your soulmate's name? You write to them everyday."

"Can't force it outta a gal, Sugar. She'll tell me someday."

"Did you tell her you're in the runnin' for deputy?"

"We don't talk about work." Monty leans forward on the counter, eyeing her tiefling friend with a good natured grin. It’s a lazy day for both of them, and Monty had decided to waste the time away bothering her on the job. "Are you jealous, Gen?"

Gentry rolls her eyes, snipping off the end of a rose. "Hardly. I can get your attention whenever I want it," she adds with a wink.

Monty's heart pounds and she blushes like she's done since they met each other at thirteen. "Bold, for someone without a soulmate."

"Ass," Gentry flicks her with her tail, turning away from the bouquet she is working on, a faux-offended hand on her chest. "Don't you know tieflings don't have souls?"

A prevalent belief aside, it’s a joke the two have had for going on two years. Gentry obviously had a soulmate - the scars that appeared now and then proved it enough - she just never wrote and neither did they. Not that Gentry seemed to mind, as she made it clear, soulmate or not, she was not to be kept.

Monty agreed. Until the day they met, she and her soulmate had decided anyone else is fair game.

Which is why she feels no guilt for pulling Gentry close, letting her hands rest on her hips. "You have plenty of soul, darlin'."

"Charmer," she says with a grin that Monty likes to call devilish, just for the pun. She gets a kiss for it regardless. "Did you see that cute family that moved in? The tabaxi and the two minotaur?"

"Gentry, they set up shop like two weeks ago. Wait - " Monty smiles, pulling her closer. "Are you - shy?"

Gentry purses her lips and sticks her face under Monty's chin, muttering, "That minotaur boy is so cute."

Monty chuckles as she agrees. The boy had a soft cow face with shaggy bangs that fell in front of his eyes. "His name is Rascal."

"He's so cute to me," Gentry says again, distractedly.

"Let's go bring him some flowers, darlin', and say howdy. He seems like a real sweetheart."

Gentry immediately gets to work fluttering around her shop for the right flowers with the right meaning - "Mont, how might one say 'welcoming you and your fine ass to the neighborhood' with flowers?" - and Monty snorts at her.

"You'd know better than me."

A moment alone, Monty grabs the front desk pen and writes on her wrist, Hey gal - are you the kind who likes to get flowers?

Well, no one has ever given me any so I couldn't say. But they are fine, I suppose.

Monty furrows her brow. That was sad enough her Ma could probably write a song about it. Didn't her soulmate have people in her life? They were basically adults now. Did she just date duds? Or maybe she didn't date at all.

"Rosé - what kind of flower would you get someone who's never gotten any?"

"As the future store owner, I'll tell ya no one can do wrong with roses." She looks at her through the refrigerator's glass door. "But honestly Mont, if you give someone somethin' from the heart, that's what counts."

"If I wanted cryptic advice I woulda asked my King piece."

"Don't ask him, darlin'; he's married to a queen."

She draws a rose onto her wrist.

"So are your 'fine ass' flowers from the heart or nah?"

–

"What the heck is your soulmate writing all over your arm? A novel?"

She rolls over and looks at where Jenrith is pointing, a look of amusement on their face. Sure enough, words and lingo that she genuinely can't follow are frantically being scribbled on her arm.

Soulmate marks were painless, nothing more than a tingle on the skin that she had been ignoring, but she holds her arm out for Jenrith to read if they felt so inclined. "This happens sometimes. They study magic."

"Are they a wizard?"

"Not sure," she shrugs, sticking her arm back under the pillow. "They said it was a hobby. They write their thoughts on their skin and then dump it into a journal later. Probably a memory trick, writing it twice. Or they're stealing it from a book."

"Sounds like a wizard," Jenrith smirks, moving the fabric of her sleeve along her shoulder up and away to see if any scribbles went that high. "Maybe they want to impress you."

She shakes her head, bumping them with her shoulder. "I leave spell casting to people like you, bard."

She didn't have many partners in their field that she actually liked, but Jenrith is a rare breed and most days she genuinely trusted them. If sharing their bed and being as close to affectionate as she knew how to be was anything to go by. They were wearing the face of a drow tonight, a face and name they favored but she couldn't imagine why, given it made them stand out like a sore thumb. Not that she would complain - it was an attractive mask, and she could suppose the dark purple skin of a drow hid them well in the shadows.

They hum, touching her ear. "What a strange wizard," they muse, looking at the piercing marks. Three faded dots at the top of the ridge and two on the lobe on her right ear; the left has two on the lobe and only one on the ridge. She does not point out her eyebrow or the dot on her tongue, nor does she recount the figurative tongue lashing her soulmate got that day.

"I think your soulmate is my type," Jenrith adds. She eyes their own piercings, and the tattoo at their chest. "You should get some of your own, I bet they'd like it."

She thinks about that for a moment - yes, they probably would. But her answer comes almost automatically. "You know we're discouraged from having obvious identifiers."

"You're no fun."

She chuckles anyway - she really isn't.

Reaching across Jenrith, she grabs an ink pen, rolling onto her back to hold her arm up. The only space left is on her dominant hand, so she shakely writes with her left: Your homework is distracting, cut it out and give my arm a break.

She lets Jenrith watch with her as the response comes in. I've told you, only my ma and blondes get to boss me around.

Maybe I'm blonde tonight. She wasn't.

I'll take that chance, you got it boss.

Jenrith laughs. "They're wrapped around your finger, eh?"

"Enough with the sweet talk," she smacks them on the shoulder. "You should be thinking about the mission tomorrow."

Jenrith smirks again. "I can multi-task," they say easily, and she lets them pull her into a kiss. She didn't want to think about new missions either.

–

What happened here, gal? Monty writes, drawing an arrow needlessly towards the faded scar on her side, along her hip, and the lingering bruises around it.

It's not as bad as it looks.

Really, cause it looks pretty bad from where I'm standing. Monty was relieved she had even answered, as her soulmate had been quiet for quite some time now.

Going days without speaking did happen, but it was rare, even for her nameless and secretive soulmate; even on days they didn't talk, she would at least say good night. My MOM even stopped me to ask if you were okay.

A few beats go by. And did she also notice the hickeys all over your neck the other day?

Monty feels herself blushing and her hackles rising, and she accidentally leaves a nonsense scribble in her haste to defend herself. They weren't that bad!

Oh? I had to shift into a tabaxi just to hide them.

I bet you looked cute.

No more hickeys. A pause, ink running on the period, and then an added, Above the neck.

Monty feels her tail thumping, her fingers drumming against her pen. She wants to flirt - really flirt, make her soulmate think of her, or to forget whatever caused that scar. But she holds off. Going too heavy on the flirting felt inappropriate while her soulmate is still healing, even to a dragon like her, who flirted as easy as breathing.

But she can't resist a little, I like givin em better anyway.

Moments go by and Monty feels content to leave it at that, when she reads back - I bet you do. But you won't find me that way.

Now why didn't I think of that?

-

"Are you ever going to tell her?"

Monty fiddles with the cheap silver ring on her left hand. She had long since stopped feeling guilty for keeping secrets from her soulmate, as they had both established it was natural.

She rolls over and pulls Gentry against her side. "I'll tell her if we ever meet."

Her other gal didn't need to know about the marriage, this stupid accidental thing they did. They were getting divorced soon anyway.

Gentry tucks her head under Monty's chin. "Don't you fuck it up with her or I'll kick your ass - okay?"

-

Monty can admit she has never treated her soulmate this badly. Never in her life has she ever taken anger or sadness or grief or anything out on her skin, on her soulmate.

But the silent treatment was just as harsh.

She hadn't the time to grab her pens or journals when she had been basically run out of town; she could buy new ones, they were cheap and frankly every shop in the whole world sold ink, but she feels like she doesn't deserve to. Nor can she think of a way to explain this to someone who was not a dragonborn.

A dishonorable dragonborn, banished from her only clan for a devastating mistake - it was so rare, unheard of. She felt disgusting, a disappointment, worthless. Dragonborn did not handle shame, and she feels it like a weight in her stomach - a weight on her back, on her shoulders, crushing until she can think of nothing except what a poor excuse for a dragon she was.

So she tells her soulmate nothing. The burn along her neck won't leave a scar, but she never explains how she got it.

Her soulmate was not one to beg. It only took two, maybe three unanswered writings before they stopped altogether. It was in Monty's court now, her soulmate giving her space. Space she didn't feel she deserved. She can't imagine this feeling ever going away.

…

…

It does of course, or at least eases, when she realizes Tequila, her deputy kobold who her family had basically adopted, catches up with her, stating she wasn't going to let her do this alone and that Pa would take over as Sheriff. Someone would replace Tequila as deputy, and Tequila would stay with Monty, her connection to home. She takes comfort in the knowledge that the bandits had not shown their faces since that night, and the burned down hotel was already being rebuilt.

What doesn't go away is that ache of disappointment, that horrible weight of dishonor. She can never shake it.

Even when she learns about the Mourning, of the devastation that happened in Cyre that day, she can't shake it, and in the coming five years she never does. Arrogance was always her worst vice.

Taking refuge in bad decisions eases it. It's foolish, really, to do such a thing to cope, but she does. (Perhaps that is her worst vice). Names and numbers and coordinates she won't remember as she sneaks out of their beds the next morning litter her arm week after week, sometimes night after night.

Her soulmate, if she has any opinions on what her sister and Pa call hoarding and what everyone else called sleeping around, says nothing. Monty almost wishes she would scold her for it, or get angry, something.

Monty feels too broken to be kind. But righteous? She could muster that.

–

She's not exactly sure when she had started shifting into the mask of Aubrey in the middle of missions but that was the identity she found to be the best at blending in with the crowd. It’s her pattern now to track her mark as Aubrey, do the deed as someone else, and then shift back to escape unnoticed. Aubrey could be the one she counted on to fade into the background.

It is Aubrey's face she is wearing when it happened.

She had been tracking a mark at the time, keeping a reasonable distance away to avoid detection, when a sharp pain flares across her shoulders and spine.

It is only her finely honed reflexes that curb the gasp she wants to let out, that help her catch the dagger she almost drops, and she jerks her head around. Had she been hit with an arrow?

But the pain comes again and she ducks into an alleyway, doubled over, taking comfort in the dark. Back against the stone wall of a building, the pain seems to dull then sharpen, carving a pattern into her skin. She covers her mouth and jams her dagger against the wall, her only outlet as she tries to stay quiet.

She falls to her knees on the cobblestone, waiting for whatever the hell this is to dull again so she could catch her breath. It couldn't be her soulmate - marks were painless. Fear shoots through her as she desperately hopes it is anything but that.

Aubrey has no memory of how she made it back to her hotel room, but she remembers that moment, after she had shed her armor and clothes and twisted to see herself in the mirror, and saw it.

A large red mark, angry and sharp and almost glowing on her skin, sits between her shoulder blades. It was abstract as all marks were, but had two rather identical patterns that almost looked like wings.

The pain has dulled to an ache, like a bruise. It's then she thinks - her soulmate.

Her soulmate would bear the same mark. Ghostmarked, the world called it.

Her soulmate would know.

Should she say something?

Would her soulmate say something?

She waits.

Curled up in her own self pity and pain, she drops her mask completely, and drifts in and out of sleep, jerking awake some time later with two words on her mind.

I'm sorry.

The answer is almost immediate. Are you okay, gal?

Seeing 'gal' again warms her heart, foolishly, before rapidly cooling to ice. She had long since stopped combing the room for the voice when she heard the term in a crowd.

Her pen almost snaps in her hand. She doesn't answer.

–

Two weeks and a foiled mission later, the pain is burning Aubrey's shoulders so badly she can hardly concentrate on anything else.

She tries to remember what she knew about Aberrant magic but all she can recall is spell casting. Gritting her teeth, she reaches for her pen and scribbles on her wrist, under the palm. Please, help.

Her handwriting is shaky, but everything hurts too much for her to care about appearances. Please.

She waits. It was a shot in the dark. It had been a hundred and six days since the Mourning, since whatever turned her soulmate cold, since they had started ignoring her for the comfort of others - but the answer comes as if no time had passed at all.

Your mark hurts, I can feel it.

? how.

Mine is itchy. You need to cast a spell. What can you cast with it?

don't know.

OK. Then you need to take a deep breath, and focus. Ground yourself until -

can't focus. it hurts.

Pick something. Focus on me.

She could do that. She thinks of the nameless, magic obsessed lizard or dragon who now shared this horrible thing on their back because of her; she takes a breath and then another and -

From her wrist to elbow, and up along to her other arm words come through on her skin faster than her soulmate has ever written. Most of it rambles, breathing, channeling, grounding, matrix, schools, enchantment, memory, chemicals - until she has to tune out everything but the words that made sense together.

It's familiar, and comforting - but not yet helpful.

its not working

A moment, and then the miniature manual is wiped clean.

Most basic spells have a somatic to them. Gestures. Try this -

And they scribble, step by step gestures, directions for her fingers and hands to follow. She watches as they litter her forearm, then up almost to her shoulder. It is again familiar and this time it was something she could do.

She deciphers enough to follow the instructions, complete with diagrams, to ground herself and make the gestures, feeling as if she was relearning Thieves Cant. She doesn't know how to channel, but she does as she is told. It is only for the sake of her desperation that she does not feel foolish.

She loses track of time, unsure if it was hours or minutes passing, simply gesturing and whispering what sounds like nonsense to herself, until she follows the directions for Enchantment and feels energy burst from her fingers in a red light.

Immediately the pain eases and the relief is enough to make her feel close to tears. She repeats that one, more confidently, and she feels it again, a sensation from her spine to her fingertips.

She waits for her breathing to even out before writing, Thank you, again and again.

What did you cast?

I don't know. Nothing happened. It was the one you labeled Enchantment.

You can probably affect people around you. Subtle fits you.

Aubrey pauses, unsure how to feel about that. It could certainly be useful - but to use this thing would be asking herself to take a huge risk. She would have to tell her handlers eventually, assuming they didn't get rid of her for this.

Good luck, gal.

–

Aubrey doesn't notice it right away, too distracted reading her journal to compare the written notes to what she saw in her dream as she brushes her teeth, but when she looks up from the towel wiping her face, she freezes.

A faded but visibly mouth sized mark on the edge of her collarbone.

"Oh, for - "

She hasn't spoken to her soulmate proactively in almost three years. It was partly out of stubbornness, and partly out of pride - but she wouldn't string along a Ghostmarked.

It is unknown the full number of people who never ended up with their soulmate, but it certainly isn't unheard of and many even preferred it that way. She could be one of those. Her soulmate could forget about her - hide the Mark, and forget. More than they already had, at least.

Apparently, her soulmate had forgotten one of their rules too. She had gotten a variety of markings along her skin over the years - specifically the kinds that one usually wakes up to in the morning - but they had agreed nothing above the neck.

She feels oddly slighted - she hasn't been with nearly as many people as her soulmate apparently, nor had she ever since getting her Mark. Clearly, her soulmate had no such troubles.

Which is what she wanted, her soulmate to move on - but, hypocrite that she is, she grabs her eyeliner pen, having left her inks by the bed.

(How sad that she kept them with her even after all this time.)

We said no hickeys!!

She underlines it to show she really means it, then - probably childishly - circles the mark as best she can looking in the mirror, as if she is pointing at it.

She's clearing off her sink when the answer appears on her wrist. Is that any way to greet your soulmate?

There's a wavering to the handwriting, the words overlapping messily. Are you drunk?

Are ya jealous?

Regardless. Be careful next time.

She washes the ink away, and has to blink at the words that take their place. What if it was you next time?

'You' is underlined, as if the sentence wouldn't hit her without it. She stares at it, feeling an out of character blush on her cheeks. Her soulmate is a flirt, but had never - implied -

Me?

I missed ya. You never thought about it? What it would be like - you n me?

Sure, maybe she had thought about it, especially when they were younger, and again when the unknown numbers had started to litter her wrist - but not since the Mark. It’s hard enough to be vulnerable in her line of work. She wouldn't risk being found out in that way either.

The 'you n me' reads back at her until it's washed away. Seeing them gone, she blinks and writes. You know why I haven't.

I don't just mean like that, y'know?

And you know why I can't.

Maybe I wouldn't mind.

Despite fate or destiny or magic, or whatever the hell the world attributed soulmates to, Aubrey couldn't trust that. It just isn't something that could exist for the Marked. For someone like her.

Nevermind that nothing in this world came before her oath to her country.

But it does make her pause.

Oh? she writes anyway.

Yea - yknow I always wanted to date a blonde.

She hovers her pen to respond when her soulmate adds, You still ain't told me if you think about it or nah.

Again, she pauses.

It was something that crossed her mind on occasion, but when the reality is the two would likely never meet, why indulge?

But her soulmate would probably say - why not?

She catches her reflection in the mirror before turning away from it, lets herself sink onto the edge of her bed and grabs her ink.

Yes. Of course I do. And sometimes I think it could be quite nice.

It's more than either of them deserved for her to admit.

I used to think you were the type to come looking for me. That I could live a life so different from this one.

The ink runs on her soulmate's reply, unfinished scribbles that may indicate hesitation. not sure im anyone's type anymore.

If she believes for just a moment that they truly did not mind - then she assumes it must be whatever ruined them before she did that is causing them to think such a thing. The part of her that could relate to scars that were not visible feels an old pang at the idea.

I'm sure that's not true, she writes, then adds because this is what indulging looked like, you could be my type.

A twisting in her stomach that feels like regret makes her backpedal. She circles about where she thinks the hickey mark is. Clearly you are not wanting for options.

Oh ha-ha. No, just for you.

Hmm. Perhaps she is not so immune to charm.

I do think about ya. I wish I could be the kind to find you - maybe could be, some day. I don't get your life, but I think about makin it easier. To be there for ya like I'm supposed to be or know you like I'm supposed to. I think it could be good, gal. don't get what we're waitin for.

Supposed to be.

To indulge is dangerous, to think of a life that isn't this - but she lets herself in this moment. Privately, she gives herself the chance to think about it, to imagine what it could be like to let someone know her face, her name, all of them, and all of her.

To think of herself settled down, arms the same dusky green as the poison in her vials holding her at night, a face that was happy to see her just because she was her. To have someone in her life know her fully and without judgment. To live wherever she wanted, in a place they picked together. To know someone who could peel back every layer, see the Mark between her shoulders and not think she was a -

The twisting in her gut gets worse, to the point of almost painful.

She lifts her pen, her blood heating. What the fuck is she doing?

It almost makes her livid, that she suddenly feels something like needy, that she let herself forget she is Aberrant, that she's an assassin, to find herself thinking that maybe - maybe they could -

Indulging is dangerous.

Soulmate or not, she does not trust. She can't, almost refuses - not in her line of work, not with this on her back. She doesn't have a single name that trusted anyone anymore.

How foolishly she let herself forget that, just for some pretty words.

Standing abruptly, she slams her inks back into their drawer, and she turns back to the fallen eyeliner pen that needed to take its place back on her sink. You know why I can't.

Her soulmate starts to write a response that she scribbles over until it stops. I know but you know why I won't. We are not waiting for anything, Aubrey adds, for her own finality and the rising pettiness in her throat.

Her soulmate does not respond right away, and makes her wait long enough she could have finished getting ready in the time between, if she did not feel the lingering urge to see this to its end.

An X appears on her bottom lip and she stares at it, feels the tingle on her skin, until she understands. A kiss - a kiss good night, or perhaps nothing more than a kiss goodbye.

She almost regrets the idea of goodbye.

And she hates that. Hates that she let herself feel this, that lurch in her stomach at the thought of a damn kiss - to want and to miss someone she has never met and someone she will never meet.

She raises her pen, considers swiping her own X in return, before she drops it.

She scrubs at her skin in the shower, as if she could literally wash away whatever it is under the surface that transcends time and space and all logic, until her head clears of fantasy. That's all a soulmate could ever be for her - a fantasy.

They would get over it. They couldn't miss her forever.

The X is still on her lip when she gets out.

–

Monty watches the marks fade as they're washed away, leaving just the ones she made. She'll probably feel like a fool in the morning, but not right now. She cleans off the words on her wrist, but she lets the one linger. Let the gal think of her a little longer, before she tries to forget.

At least, that's what Monty assumes her soulmate is doing. Minimal marks and contact in the past few years. Nothing more than an occasional absentminded sentence in another language written on her palm, maybe a random name or a city - usually things her soulmate can and will wash away immediately.

Once in a blue moon, Monty would scribble 'be careful, hey?' or 'take care of yourself,' next to a healed injury but didn't usually get more than a 'Thanks.' in return. Lately, still rarely, but it happened, her soulmate would sometimes write the same to one of Monty's scars. Now that she had taken up bounty hunting, Monty was coming back to her hotel with more injuries than she did back home.

She knew that this could happen between soulmates who were aberrant. Disguised, she had checked out anything she could on the subject from Sharn's library, fact and fiction, and had stayed up night after night reading. She read about relationship woes, about being ghostmarked, and more importantly had read as much as she could about aberrant magic.

It is difficult to find writings from those who are aberrant, as those who could hide their marks usually did not admit it. As such, she had been stuck reading mostly from the other side. How dangerous they were, how untrustworthy; it was a curse, some claimed, for the both of you. She outright bought anything that came from the source if she could help it.

Monty did not know what her soulmate did, but from the few flashes of insight she had gleaned from writing back and forth for three decades, and from the injuries that popped up on their bodies, she had guessed she is perhaps a soldier or something. A fighter, an informant, a mercenary, maybe even another bounty hunter who is either exceptionally good at her job or just one who took herself much too seriously.

But Monty knows who she is - she could be anything and anyone, sure, but seemed to have a consistent temperament. Proud, secretive. Clever; smart and witty. Quiet, resourceful. Picked her battles.

Stubborn as a dragon.

So, if she is ashamed of being aberrant, as it seemed most anyone would be, it is clear nothing Monty could say or do would convince her to hold her head up about it.

Not that Monty could blame her. It was the case - that day, almost a hundred days after the Mourning and banishment from her clan - she had been angry. Of course this would happen, so soon after the worst day of her life.

But then she had gotten her head out of her ass - it was a much worse day for the world than her - and she had done her reading. It wasn't long until her soulmate had broken her silence and asked for help. She had never begged like that before, and all Monty could do was teach her, to tell her how she casts magic even though her body does not want her to.

It seemed to work, although as expected her soulmate had gone quiet after that.

At first she had thought - maybe the gal was getting back at her for the years of distance. Monty hadn't exactly reached out after her banishment, ashamed and taking refuge in women she could actually touch.

It had been three years since she - since they both - were marked aberrant and it had taken a hickey from Addison to get her gal talking again.

At the least, Monty thinks, it was nice to feel connected. To admit that yes, she still thought about and missed her, and to in turn know that she was thought of too, even with years and miles between them.

Thought of course being the true word, as it is clear now she is chasing something and someone who did not want her. Monty had hurt her enough.

She sighs, and begrudgingly wipes the X off her skin, already dreading tomorrow's hangover.

-

-

She takes a new job, over a year later, in Breland. The city of Sharn, specifically, and given the objective is to be undercover almost twice over, she decides to go as Aubrey from start to finish. Aubrey is the one who could blend into the crowd, the one who could simply exist as unremarkable, and that is exactly what she needed to do.

Her handlers give her a fresh communication journal and her faux-files for Avexa and Angelica, her unofficial bosses, and she heads off to Sharn. Fifty days on an airship, retrieve a device full of demonic kalashtar souls, and kill the crew (that is, any witnesses) before leaving. Honestly, one of the least physically demanding of her missions if there ever was one.

The only thing her handlers do not give her is an overview of airships or her applicable role, but assuredly Avexa or the captain can help her with that. Nor do her handlers tell her what the device she is meant to be looking for is, as frankly no one knew what it looked like - but surely she would know when she saw it.

She meets a dragonborn on this trip, and she gets the same flash of curiosity she always does when she comes face to face with a reptile race. She is gold, tall, carries a strange pipe-like weapon Aubrey has never seen before, and pals around with a blue kobold. She can't remember if her soulmate had ever mentioned a kobold, nor could she remember her soulmate telling her they are a sheriff.

Aubrey rules her out as her soulmate immediately, however, and doesn't even bother to test it (nevermind that she had kicked that habit almost five years ago.) This dragon is nice to look at, and not awful company she supposes, but still too much of a bumbling idiot to be hers.

–

Every single time Monty met a blonde woman, she paused. The chances of her soulmate wearing a blonde face just because Monty had jokingly suggested such were so slim she never bothered to consider it, but they weren't zero. So when she meets first mate Aubrey, with her stern features, absolutely lovely golden hair, and frankly gorgeous everything - well, she of course pauses.

But she rules her out right away. Her soulmate was someone who worked - a soldier, a mercenary. Someone left with scars. A first mate didn't fit the bill, especially one so uninvolved and disinterested as her. The gal is wearing a lovely shortsword but she didn't even fight.

Still, Monty does learn her lesson in judging on looks - when she challenges Aubrey to a spar and swiftly gets her ass handed to her.

She considers leaving a message on the cut that forms - something like ‘messed with the wrong gal today’ - but it's so healed from magic, Monty doesn't bother. She'd need to do much more to get her soulmate's attention again.

Or so she thought.

Everything she thinks, everything she hoped for, everything, everything, is changed forever when she sees that aberrant mark on Aubrey's back.

–

It was ironically ill-fated, a sheriff and an outlaw, the chances of it working out pitifully minimal. But they weren't zero.

-

-

The day after Harper realized her book was nowhere to be found in Montgomery's room - more specifically, the day they were picking up Captain Wayfinder's away team from a town called Runswick - Harper notices a faded white scar on her arm. Brow furrowed at what the hell could cause that - a spell? A knife? - she feels a familiar urge to write. Perhaps it was Harper's general good mood, or maybe it was more her frazzled nerves from listening to Demetrius and Brunhilde argue over the categorical status of tomatoes for two and a half days.

So she does. Be careful next time, yes? she writes, then draws an arrow on her shoulder to the strange scar.

Her skin tingles as she receives an answer. No worries gal, just a bounty that wouldn't go down.

She drums her fingers on her skin, a small smile on her lips. It feels like old times, and apparently this new face as Harper is sentimental. She had been feeling the urge to reach out to her soulmate more lately - again, something she blames on Harper. But she isn't ready - Harper's and Aubrey's differences aside, she hasn't changed her opinion on being Marked.

She finishes getting dressed and goes to check stock.

–

Monty never expected this conversation would happen in a closet.

She feels the hilt of a sword land against the side of her head, and then flinches when the area starts to burn. Fuckin' poison.

She manages to curb her nausea and duck away from the next swing and another, the cramped space making the sword ineffective, but causing her to press closer to the door.

In the flash of the gold light of her magic, she sees the glint of the sword come down again - Monty finishes the Shield spell and, as the sword clangs off the hologram, she grabs a wrist, pulling the figure closer. It's a risk, and she takes it.

"Is that any way to greet your soulmate?"

A pause before the shadow jerks away, her sword clattering to the ground. "Excuse me?" a deadly whisper, and it is not Harper's voice.

Her response is a warning, like the rattle of a snake before it bit. Or - well - before it struck again.

"Easy, darlin' - " Monty starts to say, holding her hands up, but she can see the dark form take a step back, away from her. "I'll prove it."

She pauses again and Monty quickly adds, "you can kill me if I'm wrong."

An unamused but light chuckle. Monty reaches up again, holding a low lit Firebolt in her palm. In the now dim light, Aubrey stands in front of her, wearing more emotions than Monty can remember seeing on her face. Doubt, concern, worry, and maybe a little diminished hope.

"Fine." In a flash, a dagger is held to her throat. "You have one minute."

"You're aberrant," Monty rushes out to say. At her deadpan expression - because yea, half the ship knew that one - she adds, "You got your mark ninety two days after the Mourning. Two weeks later, I helped you. I helped you cast your first spell."

The dagger had already fallen at 'ninety two days.' Aubrey ignores it, her grip on Monty's collar releasing, her eyes intense even in the dim. "You…?"

"And it grows right, sometimes? I assume when you use it? It's a little bigger now. I mean I could show ya but it's pretty dark in h -"

"You knew - " Aubrey says, her voice raised in something like indignation and shock, before she tugs Monty down with a yank and kisses her. The light in Monty's hand fizzles out.

It is not a soft kiss, nor a particularly affectionate one, and yet it still feels like it was supposed to, like all the corny things the world said about soulmates were true. She rises on tiptoe as Monty pulls her closer, placing a hand on her back, above where she knows the mark is under the leather.

She pulls back a touch. "Why didn't you say?"

"What was I supposed't - "

The air falls out from both of them when the door opens, and they hear, "What's with all the bumpin' and yellin' in here, folks - oh - " before they hit the ground. "It's just you two."

Before Monty has even registered Demetrius speaking, her head snaps up to look at Aubrey - and sees Harper, who landed on top of her.

"We were not bumpin'," she says as Harper rolls off of her, wiggling out of Monty's arm that had wrapped around her in a reflexive response to falling.

Demetrius gives a half scoff, half chuckle. "Right, sure. Just keep it down next time, okay?"

Harper has already gotten to her feet, swiftly and stiffly. "Certainly," she says, and her faux-lightness is probably only apparent to Monty as she steps away from her, and him, and the situation.

Thankfully, either deliberately or due to her not paying attention, she is headed in the direction of Monty's quarters.

"Hey," Demetrius says out of the side of his mouth, not yet content to get back to the ship's wheel. "You piss her off or something?"

Monty glances at him. "...yea," she lies, sort of, "I think I did."

He gives a smirk. "Maybe you guys should try bumpin'."

"Thanks!" Monty faux-hisses, and chases after Harper as Demetrius laughs her away.

Monty catches up to her and, regardless of if Demetrius had watched the two go, she takes Harper by the arm and tugs her into the room, shutting the door behind them.

Harper immediately turns on her heel. "You and your friends are in danger."

Monty pauses in her Cure Wounds spell, hands frozen in front of her. "There's more?"

"Yes," Harper says, as if there wasn't currently a huge revelation between them. "We are being followed, and you need to know - that our guest Captain Cross is not who he says he is."

"You couldn't have told me this earlier instead of tryin' to kick my ass in a damn closet?"

–

Later, when Cross was revealed as Angelica and she had taken control of the ship from Wayfinder, Harper kicks herself.

How could she be so stupid?

Monty uses a firearm, the same kind of weapon her soulmate had scribbled on her arm when they both were younger.

Monty has a sister named T.

Monty said gal and is smart about magic.

Monty is a dragonborn.

And more importantly, more stupidly, Monty's journal had the same handwriting as her soulmate's.

She tries to find something to blame it on, and can only think she had been too sure it wasn't Monty, and too focused on getting through this unnoticed to pay attention. Nevermind the fact that she spent her adult life in pure denial over the idea of meeting her soulmate face to face in the first place.

Her fingers are itching to write but more than that is the pull to just go see her in person.

So she does.

It takes Monty only a glance at her before she immediately turns to Tequila. "Teq, can you give us a minute?"

Tequila sticks her head out from her hammock and glares, before silently slinking off the fabric and over to the vent on the floor, her blanket wrapped over her head. Despite herself, Harper chuckles when she hears Tequila's mock kissing sounds echo after her.

It was Harper who came here, but she takes way too many beats staring at Monty, as if it is her who should start, and with some embarrassment Harper realizes she is nervous.

Eventually, Harper comes to stand in front of her. "How did I not know?"

Her fingers trace along the shell of Monty's webbed ears, specifically on the triple row of earrings. "You wear your hair in a way that hides them."

"But I knew they were there."

Monty tucks her hair behind the corresponding ear, studying it. Three faded dots at the top of the ridge, and two on the lobe. "Huh, I should have considered how it would look on a human."

"I'm not always a human."

"And you're not always blonde, yea?" Monty winks, and dammit it's just her nerves from the whiplash of reveals tonight that makes her stomach flip at seeing it.

"We can…discuss that if you wish; I'm sure you have some questions. But I need to ask something of you first. I think I'd like to take you up on your offer."

She lingers on the word. Monty raises her chin, then raises an eyebrow, realization on her face. "You wanna see it…?"

Harper hesitates, yes on her tongue but she finds she can't say it. She nods, again feeling annoyingly embarrassed. "Assuming you weren't 'kiddin'' with me."

Monty waits a moment, perhaps to see if Harper changes her mind, before reaching down and pulling her shirt over her head, and she turns around.

Harper has to take a step back, before stepping forward, closer. She had never gotten such a direct look at the thing before. It's a touch smaller on Monty, given the dragon is bigger and taller than her, but she can already tell it had indeed grown a fraction after she had used it today to lure Monty into the closet. An action she regretted now that she had time to think and was no longer in a panic over being confronted about her cover.

Funny, she finds she hates it less, looking at it like this, to see such a burden literally on another's shoulders.

"You really knew. All this time."

"Well," Monty's voice comes tossed over her shoulder. "I knew Aubrey - well, you know when. The Harper thing I didn't realize until I saw my Frost scar on your shoulder. That harpy nearly tore your whole sleeve off, but I saw it, right there."

Harper hovers her hand over the Mark, over skin and scales, fingers curling. "And you really don't mind…? You kept my secret from your friends, even knowing - " she takes the risk and touches the Mark, "this?"

"My soulmate bein' a spy from another continent bothers me more than you bein' aberrant, if we're bein' honest." Her tone is a deadpan but Harper caught the way she shivered when her fingers landed on skin.

"You write so differently than you speak."

"Hey!"

Monty turns first her head, then her body, annoyed at the jab to her ego. "It's my accent! Damn they train assassins t'be rude, too?"

Beside herself, Harper has the gall to laugh - it is a very rare opportunity, to let someone poke fun at her profession. "Simply stating that it was another thing I didn't notice, that's all."

Her voice is way too coy, carrying a strange and foreign mirth, and Monty notices. "Just say you think it's cute," she says, settling a hand on Harper's hip.

"I don't recall you being this arrogant."

"Maybe I've changed. Maybe we've both changed."

Harper tilts her chin up. "I suppose our conversation isn't exactly over - "

"I'm not sure," Monty cuts in, her head lowering tellingly, "that I care about that right now."

"You'll hate me in the morning," she says with a tilted lip.

"I feel a lotta things about you, but hate ain't - "

"Ain't that - Aubrey's mark?"

Tequila's voice is like a bucket of cold water and the two jump apart. Tequila sits with her head poking through the room's vent, blanket around her shoulders. "Sorry - I didn't think y'all would - so fast - and I wanted to grab Wyrm - but Monty, did you know - Aubrey?"

Despite it all, Monty chuckles. Tequila barely said so many words in one sitting. Harper would probably laugh too if her heart wasn't stuck in her throat, or if she understood the Draconic the kobold kept dropping into.

"Teq," Monty says over her shoulder, "don't you know it's rude to go on and on about another woman in front of a pretty gal?"

"I don't care about your flirtin'! Your soulmate is Aubrey?" She skitters up Monty's shoulder, a grin now on her face, making her look exactly how Harper expected a little sister would. "The gal you wouldn't shut up about? The gal you been gaga over since ya met her?"

"Didn't I get enough of this from Liseran?!"

"How could ya do this to Harper?"

Harper finally does laugh, the sheer madness of everything catching up with her, and she had to admit their antics were pretty cute. "I think I should leave you two alone to talk this out, yes?"

She gets a "No!" and "Yea!" at the same time and a joint glare at the other, and it makes her burst out a laugh again. "We can discuss what we should do in the morning, Monty. Truly, I can't wait to learn more about this Aubrey character."

She winks as she leaves, waving her fingers goodbye at Tequila and ignoring Monty's deadpan expression.

Harper takes her time going back to bed, feeling restless. She feels exposed and seen, yet somehow completely safe. It is a strange predicament, having her cover blown by the one person she could chance to trust to protect it, who so far seemed to go out of her way to do so.

She would trust her, for now.

Later she sees on her wrist, Sorry about that. Don't hate me in the morning.

She rolls over and grabs her inks. Had she truly never seen it?

I stopped taking my shirt off around her when It happened. I don't think she noticed. Teq minds her own business usually.

And how did no one else notice?

You can hide a lot of things in the dark.

That sounds more like you. Did you tell her about me?

She underlines 'me' for emphasis, not that it was necessary. She's sure Monty understood; it was more for the sake of hearing it.

Darlin if I wanted people to know I would have said something three weeks ago.

'Oh,’ she thinks.

She waits, giving herself a moment. Yes, it is certainly a strange predicament - but she would trust it.

She swipes a quick X on her bottom lip, leaving it there for a few heartbeats before wiping it away.

For now.

-

"Harp - " Monty mutters into her hair as they sit away from the rest of the crew, a rare moment of almost no space between them, at least physically. Currently hurtling themselves towards a fight to get their airship back, a fight many of them might not survive, Monty knows it is now or never. "I hope you understand why I - five years ago - "

She turns her head so that their foreheads could be touching if Harper met her halfway, feels Harper sigh against her, feels her fiddling with her newly gifted enchanted chess piece. Monty had given it to Aubrey barely a few hours ago, a promise to look after her no matter what, after she had agreed to reveal herself as a changeling to the rest of the crew.

"It stopped mattering, and you know that."

"Harp, that ain't - "

"I know your story now, Monty. Forgive yourself."

Monty almost flinches at how simple it is, how half a decade of guilt and disdain for herself at what she did to her town and then her soulmate could immediately alleviate in two words. The sudden lack of weight on her shoulders makes her want to collapse, the pending fight be damned.

The weight settles again, to remind her it will still be there for time to come, but with the way Harper inclines herself towards her, wordlessly meeting her halfway regardless of any eyes on them, Monty realizes she can carry it.

-

Aubrey sits perched on the railing of the now safely docked ship. The place is still a mess from the crashed wedding and foiled interplanar jump, one of the hardest fights she had been in, at least recently. It is, to her, a wonder that so few died, but everyone had new scars to show over it. She doesn't even want to think about what the Tetra Warriors' eyes are going to look like after this, after Liseran had suffered a blow so horrible it had removed one entirely.

She leans her elbow on her knee and looks out at the lights of Sharn's towers and the dark of the night sky - she had been sitting out here since the sun started setting, watching the colors fade to black. It's a mild comfort to see something other than the damn ocean after over two weeks of travel, but she does sort of miss seeing the sky.

Odd - she never used to like open spaces.

It had only been a few days since the crew had learned she and Harper are the same person, and she couldn't say she had been too comfortable wearing this mask around them again yet. It is only for the sake of being alone - and a pending important question she needed to ask - that let her stay like this for now. She had been wearing this face when it happened, after all.

The little dragon shaped chess piece sits in her hand, her thumb combing over its crowned head. She remembered Monty owned this weird thing that gave advice, had seen her speak to it back when they had first met, but she didn't realize it had been a piece of her family until after the mission in Runswick, the Greys' home. She recognizes the value of such a gesture, to be gifted something so personal, and it makes her heart clench in equal parts delight and despair.

She stares at the King, trying to form her question in her mind. She certainly is no yellow-belly, but she's not particularly sure she wants the answer to this question.

"You okay over here, gal?"

Startled, she looks over to see Monty tentatively approaching. Last she knew, Monty had been out with her folks. "Oh - you're finished with your visit?"

"For tonight," Monty chuckles, implying they probably would see them again before they returned home to Runswick, easing over to stand next to her. "Saw you lookin' pensive over here, thought I'd check in before I hit the hay. Give you the chance to tell me to scram if you'd rather be alone."

She says it lightly, and Aubrey realizes she is comforted to be given the choice, finds she does want her company right now. She wouldn't admit it outloud like this, but she feels a little more at ease just seeing her, that ridiculous pull always there. Perhaps that was, traditionally, how soulmates found each other.

"No need to scram," Aubrey says, and Monty makes that pleased face she always does when Aubrey mimicked her lingo. "I suppose pensive is the right word."

Monty's eyes dart to the king piece still in her hand. "Lookin' for advice?"

Aubrey curls her fingers around the item and she tucks her hand against her chin, elbow propped on her knee. "Yes. There's something I've been curious about, and thought he might have some…insight."

Monty tilts her head. "Can I…help? Save ya a question?" It only worked once a day.

Aubrey glances back out into the dark. "I'm - not sure if I should bring this up, so soon after what we just went through. People are still licking their wounds, as you say."

"Well," Monty says after a moment of thought, "maybe that actually makes this the right time to ask. You sound a bit…wounded yourself."

Aubrey sits a little straighter, pondering that, thumb tracing over the chess piece's features.

Finally, she levels Monty with an even stare. "Did you mean it?"

A multitude of expressions pass over Monty's face, most of them different forms of confusion, and Aubrey chuckles. "You told Harper that…you minded more that I was a spy - over the fact that I was…Aberrant."

Monty's eyes widen. "Oh, right. Yea, I - "

"You said the same many years ago. That you did not mind it."

Brow furrowed, the wheels in Monty's head were clearly turning, before they come to a crashing conclusion that turns her face comedically embarrassed.

"So I'm wondering - " Aubrey interrupts before Monty can continue stuttering anymore, "if you meant it. That you would have been with me - that we could be…good - in spite of the Mark."

"'In spite'? You think it should bother me that you're aberrant?"

"Frankly, yes." At least back then, it had been such a bold thing to declare.

Monty chuckles, "Well, obviously it doesn't."

'Obviously' rubs Aubrey the wrong way, perhaps wearing the wrong face for this type of conversation, perhaps she had convinced herself much too thoroughly that it was anything but obvious.

Sharply she swings her legs over the railing and drops to the deck, shortening the space between them. "How?"

To her credit, Monty does not step back. "How am I not…bothered?"

"Yes," Aubrey says, more earnestly than she means to, and only then realizes she is holding the chess piece against her chest. "You're obviously not lying, but what you're saying cannot be true - because it isn't true, here or anywhere, and this back and forth is driving me utterly - "

"But you're still you."

Aubrey pauses, more stunned than she would care to admit. "What do you mean?"

"It doesn't matter if you're marked - you're still you."

"I think being a changeling confuses that a little."

Monty turns her head to stare down at her, and Aubrey watches as she seems to be debating with herself, like she was gathering the courage to say something.

"Alright."

She leans forward and places both hands on the railing, on each side of her. A bold move to use on an assassin, but Aubrey allows it - no worse than walking into a closet with one - nor can she seem to bring herself to dislike the closeness anymore, something she blames on Harper, as it was definitely her fault. Definitely.

"Listen, I'll be honest with you - it did bother me, when it happened. You know what I was goin' through at the time, so - I can't say I was all that acceptin' of it, right then."

Aubrey had suspected as much, but it hurt to hear it confirmed. Her face must betray it as such, as Monty leans down to catch her eye.

"Listen," she emphasizes, "I got over that. I may be bull-headed, but I know how to pull my head outta my ass. I did my homework. Like I always do," she adds with a wink. "I did my readin'.

"After that I just felt - worried for you. We weren't talkin', and it was my fault, so I get why you didn't reach out, but I meant it when I said I missed you. I meant it, that I didn't mind - I still don't."

She looks out at the city much as Aubrey had before, like she was chewing over her next words. "I get why you doubt it though. The fuckin' Houses spoutin' that shit about aberrant folks made it all the way to Riedra, huh?"

Monty meets her eyes again. "I can make up my own mind about that stuff."

"So you don't think they're - dangerous?" Aubrey asks, her suspicions apparent. "That I'm dangerous?"

Monty grins. "Ohh, you're dangerous. But not for that. My Ma can Charm in her sleep," she adds with a scoff, then leans in like she was sharing a secret. "You're more dangerous for that sword on your hip and the dagger you keep in yer boot."

Aubrey feels her lip pull up at that.

"But," Monty eases off the teasing, "you're still you. Aberrant, an assassin, a spy, a changeling, Aubrey or Harper - I've known you my whole life, in a way. What you look like, or this Mark we've both been saddled with, if you use a sword or magic - I don't think I care. I'm just glad I met you. I'm just glad we're - friends."

She looks away when she says that last bit, like it was a bit too much to admit - and it probably was - before apparently remembering she also is not a yellow-belly, and meets her eyes again. "Does that answer your question?"

Aubrey takes stock for a moment, processing this new perspective. It sounded so simple - to not care.

She keeps her eyes on Monty's face as she thinks, and waits - waits for that feeling of disbelief and guilt to creep back into her mind, into her chest, waits for that feeling of doubt to settle like a cloak around her shoulders.

She feels her grip on the chess piece tighten, then slowly release when no such feelings occur to her. Instead she feels lighter, a ridiculous and more importantly new feeling of hope settling there instead.

She doesn't feel a trace of that ugly twisting in her gut, just that now familiar pull to face forward.

Pointedly, she presses a hand against Monty's chest, the one still holding the king piece. "It wasn't your fault that I didn't write to you. I pushed you away too. There isn't anything you could have said that would have changed my mind about what I was going through. To be honest with you, I think it will be a while before my mind is fully changed. Just as yours," she adds, when her bull-headed soulmate tries to argue, "will take some time to ease as well."

A resolute expression finally settles on Monty's face, and she nods. "Alright."

"But yes, I believe you have answered my question," she says, and she leans back, intending to tuck the chess piece away, before pausing and holding it out. "Would you like it - back?"

Monty places her hand over Aubrey's. "Nah, I think he likes you better."

Aubrey feels that lightness again, that spark of something, feels it in a shift behind her eyes. "I'll take your word for it. Thank you."

Leaning back out of the personal space she apparently had no problem filling before, Monty rubs at her cheek, looking embarrassed. "If uh, if - that's all - "

"One thing, actually."

"Sure," Monty chuckles, gaining that look on her face that makes Aubrey think she could ask her what day it is and Monty would be happy to answer.

She steps closer, rebridging that gap. "You would be with me, in spite of…everything?"

Monty's brow rises before she eases into a surprisingly neutral face. It takes her a moment before she can look Aubrey in the eye again, but she holds her head up when she does, and seems to summon enough gumption to take Aubrey's hand.

"I think I would be with you in spite of anything."

She almost feels foolish, for thinking this could never happen to her, that fantasy is much more real than she thought. And it does certainly feel ridiculous to think that someone like her could still find their soulmate despite it all, that she could have that sort of contentment in her life if she felt inclined to accept what is so clearly in front of her, if she felt so inclined to just forgive herself.

Aubrey wordlessly takes Monty by the face and kisses her in answer - and of course Monty doesn't hesitate, leaning down to meet her, fingers drifting into her hair as she probably has wanted to do for years.

She leans back to leave only enough space for her thumb to mime an X over Monty's lip. "If you leave a hickey, I'll kill you."

Monty does nothing but laugh and pull her back in with no promises, and with the arms that wrap around her and pull her closer, hands that sit one on her hip over a long healed scar, and the other almost protectively pressed over the mark, Aubrey thinks she feels a new oath settle in her chest, one she has been waiting her whole life to make.