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She failed to kill Father.
He also saw through her silent guise and read her plot like an open book. Throné barely comprehended the words leaving his smirking lips. Then again, thinking at all was always tricky when the stench of blood clotted her nostrils.
She clutched her side as Father departed, his leisurely stride as deep of a cut as the knife that found a home in her abdomen. She needed to stand and chase after him. She couldn’t let him slip away. She couldn’t be a failure. She—
“Throné?!”
That voice. That calm, silky voice she didn’t deserve to hear.
Her traveling companions stepped away after Bergoni stumbled to his knees. Let a true assassin finish the job. Ochette rushed off to sniff out any straggling enemies in the Snowhare’s Den to secure the perimeter. Partitio darted to the entrance to assist that poor woman Throné promised to help.
And Castti?
Well.
Now she loomed over Throné and gawked.
The corner of Throné’s mouth twitched up. “Guess I’m getting sloppy. A Snake—” Her forehead wrinkled at the surge of pain from shifting her weight. “—shouldn’t strike more than once.”
“You’re not a snake.”
That brought a hitch in her throat as Castti plummeted to her knees.
“You’re human, Throné,” she said, “and you’re bleeding.”
She tried to laugh, but nothing humored her lips. “I’ll be fine.”
Castti blew out a breath. “What happened?”
The explanation strangled her. Not because of the guilt that accompanied failure, but.... She didn’t want to drag someone as kind and accepting as Castti into her fucked up mess of a life. The allies Throné amassed had no right helping her period, but it was Castti who always brought a skip in her pulse.
It was in her eyes, to be honest. Throné swore those blue irises—as vivid as a clear summer sky—smiled somehow, brighter than the sun.
A snake lurking in the shadows didn’t deserve that radiance. Even if she managed to unlock her collar, Throné doubted she’d ever be free enough to truly earn such authentic affection.
But no brilliance resided in Castti’s gaze right then. Only panic, then an unreadable expression—even from the likes of Throné—and finally stubborn determination.
“Let me see,” she said.
Throné lolled her head and sipped in shallow breaths. Castti regarded her bloodied hand clutching the knife wound. Father claimed it wasn’t fatal, but it wasn’t exactly a paper cut, either. Better than Mother’s lashings. Anything was, really. She preferred a thousand stab wounds over public torment.
“Throné.”
Castti’s voice anchored her, but it was her careful fingertips brushing Throné’s wrist which garnered her undivided attention.
“Let me see,” she demanded that time, though softness exuded from each enunciated word.
And when their eyes met, Throné blew out a breath, nodded, and allowed her hand to drop to the cold floor.
Castti gingerly inspected the wound. Blood soaked into Throné’s purple dress. Its scent would linger, regardless of how often she washed the material. But that worry never plucked her nerves; Throné focused on Castti, who rummaged through her satchel for proper supplies.
She almost laughed. Of course a seasoned apothecary could treat a puncture. So why hesitate? Why be so damn reluctant to accept help?
If another member of their party was familiar with first aid, it would’ve been a non-issue. But no one did. Only Castti.
Throné wondered if the deadly mixture of reluctance and infatuation would remain the same, even if Castti held a different profession and skill set.
It had started in Oresrush, truth be told. Throné barely knew Castti, who also knew just as little about herself. I wish I could forget my past as easily, she had withheld from saying. What a luxury that was—to have all the pain and hardships vanish. But that gap troubled Castti and who was Throné to deny a fellow woman from regaining her agency?
Another gap, however, filled up. The one physically between them.
“What’s that smell?” Castti had asked back then.
Throné’s perfume. She... noticed? Furthermore, she liked it? For all the troubling circumstances looming around Throné, none of it disarmed Castti. She smiled, as if the past didn’t, in fact, matter.
And Throné kept wearing it, hoping to glimpse at that smile again.
Did she smell it now? That alluring oil Throné dabbed upon her pulse points? Was it a distraction for Castti while she folded a thick rag to apply pressure against the wound? Funny how her buzzing thoughts were a distraction for herself in the end, because....
Well.
She didn’t want people touching her. Even having folks in close proximity, never mind an actual touch, bristled Throné and ignited her fighting instincts. She almost lodged a knife in Hikari’s chest at Oresrush because of it. He didn’t flinch, mentioning something about trusting his friends.
Friends.
That... sounded nice.
Not only the idea of calling her fellow travelers friends, but... not wanting to shriek and thrash whenever someone reached for her. She swallowed that agony all her damn life and yet she yearned for a sliver of normalcy. Something mundane. Just a taste. Just once. Just so she understood it was real and not a fairy tale she devised as a child while admiring stuffed animals in a cozy shop display.
She wasn’t a kid anymore. She never was, truth be told. But the memories dissipated until the present moment screamed at her.
Because Throné didn’t wince at Castti’s firm grip.
Of all the times people touched her, this... this was pleasant. Hardly ideal circumstances, true—Bergoni’s corpse bleeding out in the sweep distance was far from romantic—but Throné cherished it all the same.
“How are you feeling?”
Her voice was nothing but a murmur. It seized Throné until she shivered. “I’m fine.”
“There’s no reason to push through this. If you’re in pain—”
“I’ve experienced worse.”
“I’m not doubting you, but what do you gain from lying to me?”
I may lose you if I speak the truth.
“You’re in shock,” Castti explained, as if reciting a medical textbook. “Whether it stems from the pain or blood loss doesn’t matter; if you’re experiencing chills, dizziness, fatigue, or shortness of breath, I can alleviate the symptoms.”
Maybe the shock wasn’t a result of the wound. Maybe it was because she failed to kill the one who treated her as a prized exotic pet kept on a short leash.
Blue eyes flicked over her. “Please, Throné. I only wish to help.”
What a foreign concept. However, if it meant feeling Castti’s gloved hands against her body, albeit to stop the bleeding, then perhaps accepting help wasn’t so bad.
“Whatever you need to do?” Throné uttered. “Do it.”
“Understood,” Castti replied without missing a beat.
And they sat in silence while Castti leaned her entire body weight into Throné’s abdomen.
How much time passed between them, barely looking at one another? Sometimes Castti shifted, perhaps to accommodate for the growing exhaustion, but nothing more. So close, yet so far away. What other wounds would Throné acquire to elicit her aid and attention? Surely Castti would catch onto such tricks.
Or maybe it never occurred to her, beyond absorbed in her duties as an apothecary.
Which was why she furrowed her brow. “It’s no use.”
Throné blinked as Castti retracted, chucking the blood-soaked rag aside. “What isn’t?”
“The bleeding won’t stop. I counted fifteen minutes to be sure.” She wiped off the blood from her gloves, then tugged at the fingertips of each one before removing them. “I need you to remove your attire.”
“W-what?!”
“Just the top portion.” Castti emptied her satchels, spilling an oddity of items across the ground. “I imagine you don’t want me cutting up your dress, correct?”
Another time, Throné might’ve blushed, but a cold sweat slicked her skin. “Is that really necessary?”
No warmth glowed in Castti’s irises as she skewered her with that stare. “If I am to stop the bleeding, I need to suture the wound, so yes, it is really necessary.”
Throné longed to scream.
Yet another scenario that wasn’t remotely ideal to her liking, but it wasn’t due to modesty or a lack of silky lingerie. What lingered underneath... if Throné also fell victim to amnesia, it didn’t erase the scars branding her body.
She clenched her jaw and obeyed, because at least that was something she couldn’t fuck up. Loosening her underbust cincher was troublesome as Throné fumbled with the laces, but it slipped free eventually. Purple fabric slid off her shoulders, then her arms, and pooled at her waist. If only I could remove this damned collar, too.
What skin she did reveal from her attire was flawless. The rest, however.... Scars slashed her back—new and old. Black ink enveloped her left arm, depicting a snake. Could she remove the tattoo somehow? Maybe Castti was privy to medical techniques to treat that, but Throné already burdened her plenty.
Sighing, Throné glared a hole into the ground and awaited whatever commentary or questions Castti wished to say regarding her body, let alone her matching purple brassiere.
Nothing of the sort struck Throné.
Just.
“Thank you.”
Holding her breath, Throné watched Castti from her peripherals. She mixed liquids in separate bottles. One reeked of saline solution. The other smelled of burning oak with a hint of honey. Castti ground herbs to combine with the latter, then extended it.
“Drink this,” she instructed.
Throné glanced between the bottle and Castti. “What is it?”
“Alcohol. To numb the—”
“I don’t need it. My pain tolerance is quite high.”
And yet she smiled. “It will also keep you warm. You’re growing pale, Throné. The herbs I’ve added will ward off any nausea and dizziness you may be experiencing at the moment.”
As if on cue, the entire room slowly whirled. Of course.... Throné swallowed down whatever bile taunted her, then swallowed the few gulps of alcohol.
Whatever elixir Castti whipped together surpassed any top-shelf liquor throughout New Delsta’s taverns. The liquid scorched her throat, pooled heat in her belly, and seeped into her senses at an alarming speed. Pain ebbed elsewhere, replaced by a delightful thrum. Her mind buzzed as a dense fog clouded her thoughts and the room spun for another reason.
Even so.
“Throné?”
She still clung to Castti’s voice, both distant and embedded in her ears.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she purred. “Now that you’re here.”
Through heavy lids, she locked onto Castti. The concoction blurred her features, but there was no denying that small, yet profoundly kind smile.
“Good,” Castti said, but it sounded more like a coo. “Please hang in there. I’m going to patch you up.”
Throné possessed half the mind to ask if she needed to fully strip for said patching up, but words eluded her. She melted into the haze enveloping her as Castti repositioned her to prop against a nearby pillar. It felt like a warm blanket on a cold rainy night. Except... wait, what was on her shoulders? When did that extra weight settle there?
Groaning, Throné struggled to lift a hand. She brushed the hem of the fabric draped over her before that hand plummeted like a dead weight. As saltwater cascaded over her wound, Throné nuzzled into the fabric keeping her warm alongside the alcohol.
“What is this?” Throné asked, the words slurring together.
“Ah, that’s my cowl.”
Her eyes widened. It’s... it’s your—
“Your complexion has lost its usual color,” she explained, “and while the drink will help, I wanted to expedite the process. It is rather chilly in this den, if you ask me.”
Was it? Throné couldn’t tell anymore. Just as she couldn’t tell whether Castti was still fussing with her thread and needle or actually sewing up the wound.
However, she absolutely knew when her fingertips brushed her abdomen.
Nothing tortured her—physically or mentally. Just... Castti’s deft, gentle hands. Steady motions, something expected from a woman of her caliber. Throné chewed her cracked lips and wondered how those hands felt elsewhere. All she ever knew her entire fucking existence was misery, but maybe... someone as compassionate as Castti could show her how to enjoy something for once in her life.
She liked that. A lot. Throné bit her lower lip to suppress a moan from surfacing. Perhaps the intoxication was to blame, because surely Castti had other matters to focus on than humoring Throné’s desperation for that touch she did not deserve. But Throné also couldn’t lie to herself, sober or drunk. She wanted to be free, wanted to live without restraint, and wanted to savor a gentle soul like Castti, even for a second and never again.
“Alright,” she murmured. “Almost done.”
Is that so? It felt like a lifetime and a blink of an eye. Throné peeked down, where blood slicked Castti’s skilled hands. So soft, yet worn. A needle dipped in and out of her skin. No hesitation. Not a single stutter in her movements. Such dexterity was worthy of the ranks of the Blacksnakes, but the thought of Castti ending lives instead of saving them gripped her heart. Maybe there was something deadly about her; if what Castti had said about the folks of Canalbrine was true, back when they first met, then—
“There.” A few tugs, a snip, and then a sigh. “All set.”
Throné blinked as Castti washed her hands and Throné’s abdomen.
“It will leave a scar,” she said, disappointment staining her tongue, “but it should be minimal.” Wiping her hands dry, she scooped clear jelly from a small jar to smear on the freshly sutured wound. “I’ll check on it every morning and night to ensure it’s clean and free from infection.” Blue eyes flitted to Throné’s and everything froze. “I can bandage it, as well, if you’d like. An extra precaution to minimize discomfort.” She smiled. “I imagine it would rub against your cincher quite a lot, yes?”
Why was it so hard to breathe now? When did it get so blistering hot? And why in that godsforsaken place would she be concerned about rubbing against her cincher when all she could think about was rubbing against—
“Throné?” Worry pinched Castti’s brows together. “Are you alright? Do you need anything?”
Maybe she was catching a fever. Maybe she already died and this was a blissful afterlife.
Maybe—
“Please. Tell me.”
—all she needed was....
Licking her lips, Throné mustered her remaining strength to lean forward. Her nose poked Castti’s. Their foreheads met. A slight gasp sounded between them, but Throné couldn’t discern the origin.
She couldn’t discern anything except—
“I need you,” she whispered onto Castti’s lips before stealing a kiss.
In all her drunken glory, Throné at least didn’t miss Castti’s mouth. Her sloppy, lazy advances were anything but romantic or tantalizing. But it was still a kiss and Throné cooed at how plush Castti’s parted lips were, basking in her and that stolen moment for as long as possible.
Throné reeled back and stiffened; Castti also froze, staring directly at her.
Shit.
This was more of a death wish than her scheme to kill Father and Mother. Of course she messed this up, too. Not just their first kiss, but whatever bond she hoped they shared—as travelers, as broken women.
As... as friends, even.
“Castti,” Throné coughed up and that delicious burn from the alcohol tickled her lips, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
Those hands—those tender, nimble hands—seized the junctures at Throné’s neck and jaw. Such strength was more suited for a warrior than an apothecary. That shouldn’t have surprised her; how else did Castti wield an ax with absolute grace?
“The only thing you should be sorry for,” she said, nothing but a pinprick of a whisper, “is stopping.”
Whatever feeble attempts to apologize or explain or say anything died out as Castti crushed her lips against Throné’s.
Another gasp surfaced, trapped in Throné’s throat. Castti smothered her with kiss after kiss after kiss. Her slow, yet profound motions drank in Throné, ebbing and flowing like her thread and needle from a moment ago. She swiped her tongue across Throné, coaxing her to part her lips further. They whimpered and cooed for each other. Nails dug into Throné’s neck while she clutched the straps of Castti’s medical apron. Something to lock them into place, yet it wasn’t close enough.
More. She needed more. That warmth, that sly suckle on her lower lip, that sheer hunger hidden beneath a kind face. Everything. All of it. Throné didn’t care if she suffocated, so long as basked in the woman she coveted.
But then Castti broke away, tugging Throné’s upper lip in the process. She swept over Throné’s blushing cheeks and tucked messy hair behind her ears.
“There,” Castti cooed. “Better?”
Wait. Was she doing that just to...? No. She didn’t shove her tongue into a patient’s mouth for the sake of a speedy recovery. Damn it, the alcohol was complicating matters far more than it already—
“Should I take that as a yes?”
Throné groaned and evaded her lovely gaze. “Do... you treat all your patients like that?”
Castti blinked, then snorted, and smirked. “Only the ones I truly want to save.”
She swore flames licked her face, much like how Castti licked her.
“Speaking of saving.” Castti turned away to return her supplies to her satchels. “You should save your strength and your wits. Rest is the best medicine, after all.”
“Save it for what?”
Castti paused and cocked her head to Throné. “For the next time you’re sober.”
Did she wink at her? Throné discard the thought before she did anything else stupid that evening. She bit her tongue and dressed—well, as best as one could while intoxicated. As for Castti, she collected her belongings, insisted Throné could keep the cowl a little longer, then helped her onto her feet.
“Easy there,” she said. “Take it slow. No need to rush.”
And yet we did anything but that a second ago. “I can walk fine on my—”
Two steps and Throné keeled forward. Castti caught her, secured an iron grip on her waist, and helped her walk.
“Again,” she said, almost teasing, “save your strength and your wits, Throné.”
She scoffed. “This is embarrassing.”
“Oh please, do not be mortified. This is hardly my first time doing this. I hauled Partitio to his room after who knows how many rounds of arak in Sai with minimal trouble.”
“Are you going to give me a nickname to go with Mr. Wild Stallion?”
“Would you like that?”
What didn’t Throné like? “M-maybe.”
“Hmm... I’ll think about it.” She bumped Throné’s hip with her own. “You are much lighter and more obedient. And nicer on the eyes.”
Don’t read into it. She’s being nice. She’s always nice to everyone, patient or otherwise.
“T-thank you,” Throné said after a bout of hesitation.
“Think nothing of it,” she replied. “It’s my duty as an apothecary to—”
“No, I meant... everything.”
Castti slowed to stillness and looked at her. Maybe the alcohol still blurred the details, but right then? It seemed like she smiled. In her lips and her eyes.
“It was my pleasure,” she said.
Throné snorted. “Which part?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
She did, actually. “Where did you even learn to kiss like that?”
Before they resumed their travels, side-by-side, Castti flashed a fleeting, yet genuine grin. “Would you believe me if I said I don’t remember?”
And with any luck, they could share more kisses along the road. Something memorable, something no one could ever steal from either of them.