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Dusk settles over the world; it’s a quiet unassuming thing, that faint space between evening and night, subdued but sweet. Eret can taste springtime in the air. For a very long time, she hadn’t been able to taste anything except ashes.
She meets Niki in an old, ruined castle, where her oldest friend has arranged mugs and a box of tea-leaves around a lit campfire, burning like the only tainted thing in the world, a pile of logs and kindling resting on the sterile, marble floor. There's nothing for it to catch on. Eret does and does not remember how this castle looked in its heyday; she wishes Niki hadn't chosen to meet here. But the air is sweet, and insects are humming in the dusk outside the castle, and Eret understands why Niki chose this old skeleton of a palace to take tea in.
The other Eret - Monarch, they had begun to call him - stirs at the sight of it. He remembers, even if for Eret those days are like a distant, misty dream, a fairytale through a foggy window. (Perhaps she should be thinking of herself as Eret V - it was half a joke, fashioning herself as the fifth of her line, distinguishing herself from the others who are reluctant to relinquish her name - but it still makes her flinch, the idea that Eret is not and has never been wholly her own, and she pushes the thought away.)
She had wanted to come alone, but there are shadows in the corner of her mind. A king. A child. And Eret, this era’s Eret, the deposed.
Our old receiving room, Monarch muses. Her voice, were she speaking out loud, would be low and rich, more impassive than Eos' baritone but with more conviction than Eret has been able to muster in these long few months. Careful. That Nihachu is a dangerous thing, you know.
It's a cruel and chill assessment. Eret hadn't even been paying attention to Niki, but now she turns her attention to her, and - despite herself - thinks she understands what Monarch means. (Of course she understands; the thoughts had floated up as if her own, only dissonant because of the colour and timbre of the words.) Niki, one of Eret's oldest friends, is kneeling before her makeshift campfire - oh, she has been boiling the water for their tea - and there is gold jewellery in her ears. A ruddy, robust sheen to her skin. She looks up, and even the way she moves has changed; now she is a live wire and lit fuse and predator, a light in her eyes like a wolf. When they were both much younger, barely-adults in a fairytale together, Niki had confided to Eret that she hid her piglin heritage; Eret, in turn, had confided that she had begun thinking of herself as not, entirely, a man.
(That was another Eret. One who preferred he or they, maybe out of denial or maybe because it was just who they were; Eret, Eret V, doesn't talk to them, so she doesn't know. She certainly doesn't remember how they really felt. They, Eret, all the Erets, have been telling people any pronouns since that first frightening coming-out; it makes a little more sense, now, why their preferences seemed to shift with what they had termed moods. )
This Niki doesn't look like the girl that, all those years ago, Eret had confided the beginnings of her womanhood in, shared her wonder like a secret. This Niki looks ... almost like Technoblade. It’s in the way she wears netherite and has let the natural pink of her hair assert itself, the way she drapes herself in gold. There is a sword, sheathed, laying on the marble beside her. But she looks up, and smiles, and for a moment almost looks eighteen and sweet again.
"Eret!" she says, bright and honest. Eret - Eret V, Eret the Fifth, all these stupid titles she does not want because, damnit, she just wants her name to be her own - allows herself to smile back at the name, pretend it belongs to no one else but her. Pretend she is nineteen and innocent again, in a way that no Eret ever really was.
"Niki," she greets, smiling broadly, settling down. Monarch presses up behind her eyes, so close to front for a moment that his memories are like real weight on Eret's skin; she wonders where her cloak is, her crown, her ceremonial blade. The king comes back into her castle and is not the same person. She left the cloak at home and threw the crown into a pit. She shoves Monarch back, a little coldly - this is her life, her best friend, no matter that the other Erets knew her first. (No matter that V, Eret V, has not spoken to her in months. Had only had the courage to reach out when Eos was there to steady her hand as she set a shaky quill to parchment. Had only been able to deliver the letter with Eos so close to front that Eret was practically obsolete, clinging to their body as she was.)
She fixes her skirt as she kneels on the marble floor, across from Niki, shivering faintly as she tries to clear her head. (Eret V is the one who likes to wear loose shirts with bare shoulders; she was made in summer. It's chill now, and she wishes she had brought a jacket. Even Monarch's cloak would have sufficed.) She does not meet Niki’s eyes (Eret V is the one who avoids eye contact - Eos has been encouraging her to notice these things, to help her distinguish herself from the others, though Eret finds the process almost nauseating), and gazes instead at Niki’s knees, her loose pants splattered with flour.
“You’ve been baking,” Eret says, looking up, smiling despite everything.
“It’s nice to rediscover,” Niki says wistfully; she glances away, as though she can tell that Eret is not fond of eye contact, no matter that the Eret she used to know would do precisely the opposite. (Eos says fae has worked out the taxonomy of those days, but Eret shudders if she even begins thinking about the traitor and the servant and the monarch - and her, what is she? The remnants? - it’s frightening. They were and were not herself. Eret, this Eret, is not Eret the traitor, but part of her still pressed that button ...)
Thinking about it, for even a moment, leaves Eret stumbling. Monarch is hanging back from front, but Eret notices too late just how foggy the world has gone around her - she does this, draws inwards, when things frighten her - and reaches back, tries to drag herself back into her body, their body, their created body. It was Eret V who had begun pursuing treatments and transition; Eret V who had begun to fill out Monarch’s old dresses, delighting in the curves where Monarch had favoured the sleek and sheer androgyny of a flat chest in a ball gown. She clings onto this now - her body, her woman’s body, the place her heart inhabits - but, too late, is reminded of the other presence in the corner of her mind. Closer to front than Eret is. Oh, Monarch had come out because of the castle, but the child, who feels like sunlight and wide eyes and hope, had come out because of Niki - and the girl, Missy, somehow, she’s closer to front than Eret. She fades for one moment and the child fronts - She dreads to think how they must look, spaced out as they settle in front of Niki, gazing at her legs, all because Eret cannot keep herself from thinking of distressing things. Cannot hold on to her own damn life. Cannot front without feeling she is wrapped in cotton wool -
Niki leans forwards, then. Eret watches as if from a distance; Missy is closer. Their little girl, with hair dyed to match Niki’s, wearing a sundress and a smile. Beneath Niki’s poised, silken exterior is Eret’s oldest friend, the first person to see her for who she really was, as someone similar - and there is that same perceptiveness now, in her eyes. She says, in her gentle voice, “Are you alright?”, and Eret scrambles for front, feels herself drifting, cannot answer. She is not entirely conscious. This has been happening more lately - as the others think it is safe to come out, now. Safe to push Eret away.
“Yeah,” Missy says, through Eret’s lips, though Eret can’t really feel them. She doesn’t feel the chill of the old castle any more. Missy, their kid, their baby girl - she hates being called that, but Eret - Eret V, that’s what they’re calling her - gods, but Eret wants to protect her. She can feel Missy smiling now. That kernel of trans girlhood, that’s who she is, who’d loved Niki with all her heart, tugged on another Eret’s metaphorical sleeve and whispered that she thought they might be a woman, whose presence feels like the same shade of pink as Niki’s hair and like stepping into a patch of sunlight - she feels safe, Missy does, when Niki’s around. She can’t help it. Eret can’t help it either; she gets it.
“Eret?” Niki says cautiously. Missy smiles. She likes Niki so much.
“My name’s Missy,” she says, grinning, twisting her fingers together. She likes the skirt V chose - it’s soft and it has nice patterns on it, even if it is brown, the most boring colour ever made in all time. Ever. My name’s Missy, Missy says, because she has absolutely no sense of subtlety, Eret thinks half-hysterically, a little viciously - that’s too cruel, Eret V is cruel, she’s learning this about herself - that’s not true, either. She’s just afraid. Missy, though she flinches a bit when she catches V’s thought, is not; Niki is safe, and good, and will look after her. (She was, was safe, all those years ago, before Eret the fucking traitor ruined everything, before Eret ruined it all - that traitor is and is not her, and she does not know how to approach this, the possibility of an absolution from her grief and her guilt - every time she thinks about it she’s overshadowed by Eos soft in her ear, murmuring it was all of us, darling, that Eret just pressed the button and you can’t blame him alone for something all of us chose to do. Missy wouldn’t have chosen to do it. Missy is caught in the bobbing tide of V’s fear and fury and meltdown, treading water, holding on to front. Missy shouldn’t be front, not when Niki is looking closer -)
“That’s a lovely name,” Niki says, honest and enthusiastic. Eret can tell she’s confused, feels Missy falter. This strange meld of co-consciousness, Missy and V with Monarch hanging carefully back, is like a falling tower - Babel, Babel, look at me now, they used to sing in L’Manberg. Eret and her body blink at Niki, slow, afraid. “My name is Niki. Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Um,” Missy says, and there it is, the shrinking back. The consequences of your actions, huh, Eret thinks, or maybe it was Monarch, they’re all blending together back here - the soft fondness was the king, probably, and the acid was V. No, you’re being cruel to yourself again. She can’t tell who she is, only that all of them are still gazing at Niki, who is still waiting for an answer, and someone has to bite the bullet. Take one for the team, as it were. Speak up.
Monarch has the stronger voice, surely. I can’t do this, Eret, V, begs. I can’t lose her again. Don’t make me do this.
You won’t lose her, Monarch murmurs, fierce, soft, that resonant command. Eret has never been able to see the head-space Eos has mentioned, but for a moment she is certain that Missy is clinging to Monarch’s leg - their little girl, side by side with that paragon, that bright butch ruler, that monarch who was everything Eret wanted to be and still was not enough. No, that was cruel, too. Self-loathing doesn’t have to carry over, you know. There is not so much a - physical sensation, but Eret imagines a hand on her shoulder, has a faint impression of touch, gold, a smile. This is Niki Nihachu. She has always been good to us, even when she is hurting. Let’s do her the honour of trust.
Okay, Eret whispers, shivering, and opens their eyes.
“I - I didn’t - I wanted to tell someone, ” she says, “but it’s hard. It’s really hard, Niki, I’m sorry.”
Niki reaches out. There are gold bracelets on her wrist, and she has calluses where she did not used to, but she still hesitates before taking Eret’s hand, glancing up to make sure it’s okay. “Eret?” she says cautiously, fingers ghosting over Eret’s palm.
V - Eret - nods, not trusting her voice.
There is gentleness beneath Niki’s walls; she has not brought her armour. Despite all the ways she has changed, Niki still remembers that Eret doesn’t always like to be touched without warning. She has more piercings than she used to, but there are still flour-stains on her jeans. Eret knows how hard Niki has fought to hide her softer parts; she knows, she watched, as Niki tried to convince the world she was made of gold and netherite, had nothing left inside her but fire and fury. And yet she kneels in an old castle and she’s brought Eret tea. And Eret knows she’s struggling, too. It’s so fucking hard to peel yourself back, Eret knows, and bare your heart.
But Niki’s trying. And maybe, maybe, V can be honest too.
“We’re plural,” she says. There’s no understanding, no blossoming dawn, in Niki’s expression; she’s just as confused as she was a moment before, but she nods along anyway. Eret doesn’t mind. Doesn’t let herself draw back, no matter how she wants to. (Monarch is a steadying presence in the back of her mind, and Missy’s faint warmth reminds her that - this is Niki. Their friend. No matter what, things will be okay. Eret will be okay, and she’s already said the hardest part, even if Niki has no idea what it means.)
“I love you,” Eret says, exhausted. “I’m so tired. I’m sorry.”
“I love you too.” Niki says it like it’s easy; it’s all the more painful because Eret knows that it’s not. They’d all become traitors, in the end. “We’re best friends, Eret. I promise this won’t change that.” She’s contemplative, having all but forgotten about her tea; her campfire is burning low. More time must have passed than Eret realised. “Plural, as in ...” Oh, she’s putting something together. “You said ‘we’?”
“Foolish would explain it better than I could,” Eret says honestly. “And I’m - I’m so new, honestly. It’s all coming back.” She takes refuge in rambling. “I think we - we lost so much when we joined this server, Eos says that the others who all went, uh, dormant, they all shared some secret that she says she can’t tell me?” Eret knows she isn’t making any sense. Niki gazes at her, without judgement. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, this is so - it’s really difficult, Niki.” She wrings her hands. “I promise I’m fucking trying.”
“It’s okay,” Niki says. Years ago, that soft voice would have been the most natural thing in the world. Now, it’s almost at odds with the rough edges of her body - but it feels all the more genuine because of it. So, too, does the smile that creeps into being. “Missy seemed very sweet.”
“She adores you,” Eret says, despite herself. She can feel Missy blushing, grinning, hiding her face in Monarch’s side. “I mean, we all do, let’s be real here, but -”
“That’s so sweet,” Niki says, delighted, clapping her hands together like she’s forgotten to ball them into fists. “Perhaps I can come over another time, to speak with you and Foolish about it?”
“I can explain,” Eret tries.
Niki looks her up and down. “You’re shaking, Eret. Please don’t worry about it.”
“Oh.” Niki’s right. She hadn’t noticed, but even her hands, in her periphery, shake like she’s a prophet who’s seen their own doom, like she’s a plucked string who makes no sound; she’s glad she’s not holding the teacup that Niki had set out for her, ceramic and floral-patterned. “Um. Yeah.” She fixes her eyes on the canteen of water Niki’s been boiling, chewing on her lip.
“I love you,” Niki murmurs again, and begins doling out tea-leaves into each of their cups. She hesitates; Eret only notices because she sees the brief tremor in Niki’s own hand as she nearly drops the spoon. Eret sees the burn scars there, sees the way she’s struggling. “I - I trust you,” Niki says, and forges onwards, spooning more leaves into the cup in front of Eret. “That’s enough for now. You don’t need to tell me any more.”
“Thank you so much for trying,” Eret says, quietly, hoarsely. She barely recognises her own voice.
“Thank you for the same,” Niki says, looking away. “We’re both ... well. That can be a conversation for another time.”
“Let’s talk about tea,” Eret suggests. She’s trying not to be afraid. Monarch, were he to have a physical presence, would be stroking her hair like a child, and she can feel Missy peeking out again too, hesitant but bright. Niki always used to blend different teas together, when she and Eret met like this all those years ago. “What flavours are these?” And it’s okay. She’s trying. They both - no, they all are, these multicoloured women.
“I think you’ll recognise it,” Niki says, smiling as she reaches for the canteen of water. “It’s your favourite.”
“Oh,” Eret says. She doesn’t remember the blend she used to enjoy. Doesn’t think it was ever her favourite - but maybe she’ll like it anyway.
Whatever the case, she’ll try it.. And Niki’s trying too, as dusk deepens around them, as the fire burns low in the ruins of a palace, as the tea begins to steep. Its fragrance fills the air.
It’s familiar.