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Throné’s eyes hurt.
Well, so did a lot of other things, but her dry eyes were what she was noticing at the moment. It was likely the largest factor in why she was still awake, in spite of all her efforts. My efforts to lie down in a soft bed and not move for several hours. Slightly oxymoronic, that. Though I suppose there’s certainly effort to be exerted in keeping myself from…ruminating.
And there was so much to ruminate on. And the longer she did not sleep, the more her mind ruminated, and she hated it. The events of the past twenty-four hours would not stop replaying in her mind, like a particularly affecting tragedy onstage from which she couldn’t tear her eyes.
The discovery of the hidden valley below this very city. The gondola, and its curious attendant, telling her and her companions the unsettling fairy tale of the lovers from warring kingdoms. The village beyond, disturbing beyond words. Its castle at the center.
Its master at the center of that.
Every single word its master said, driven into her brain as if with hammer and chisel.
Every relationship she ever had, every connection, the entire course of her life -- a result of his twisted manipulations and desires. All the Blacksnakes…fathered by him, this horrendous, immortal monster uncannily masquerading as a normal handsome lord. For what? He had refused to say. He just wanted her to end him, which she was all too eager to oblige, and not for his disgusting reasons. For my freedom.
It was finally here, the goal she had sought, in her hands, off her neck, and all she could think about was how stained those hands were with the blood of every (literal) family member she ever had.
Despite having fought through the night to end Claude and recover the key to freedom, they had departed Lostseed with all due haste, opting not to rest in the terrifying village inhabited by dozens of people standing around being…empty. The gondola’s attendant had not spoken a word to them and vice versa, as he ferried them back towards civilization, but he had affixed Throné with a gaze that told her he understood.
Does he?
An unfair question, perhaps, but it was far from the only one ricocheting around in her mind. And so had it been, ever since her party withdrew to the New Delsta inn so they could finally take their rest, anywhere but there.
And yet, despite having been lying here for several hours by now, rest was the furthest thing from Throné’s grasp.
Her fellow travelers, her companions -- none of them had encroached upon her. Some may have thought it cold, but she knew them well enough by now; they were respecting her privacy, knowing she would approach them when -- if -- she was ready. It’s not as if they were abandoning her.
She hoped, anyway. If they did, who could blame them? a corner of her mind sneered.
Throné took in a deep breath, held it, released it slowly. She knew that corner of her mind was full of shit. Didn’t mean it wasn’t difficult to ignore, but on some level, she knew it was wrong at its core.
If her friends wanted to abandon her, after everything they had learned from him, she wouldn’t be hearing Castti in the corner of their inn room, meticulously drawing a bath behind the wooden partition. She’d be elsewhere, far away from here. And the rest of them would have followed, like chicks after their mother hen, in that way that Castti was for them.
Castti, in particular, had just been…too good to her. More than she deserved. Less than she wanted.
“Throné?’’ the woman in question suddenly spoke from a few feet behind her, much closer than she had realized. “The bath is all drawn. Do you want assistance getting in, or are you good?”
…Wait.
That bath wasn’t for her? It’s…for me?
So I can recover in it?
Her cheeks burning, and another corner of her mind taking entirely too much pleasure in the idea of Castti helping her bathe, Throné swallowed, and then said, “I’m good by myself. Promise.” Her voice was hoarse, from an entire day of disuse, let alone after all of the oaths and curses and primal screams she had thrown at him the night before.
“Okay. The others ordered dinner, so I’ll be just downstairs with them, if you need anything.”
See? she told off that jackass corner of her mind. I knew they wouldn’t. She couldn’t stifle a small sigh of relief, though.
“And…I mean anything. No matter how small, no matter how stupid you think it may be…and no matter how large, either. Okay?”
Throné blinked. A small drop of water rolled down her cheek, fell, landed on the pillowcase. “Okay,” she whispered back. “Thanks, Cass.”
There was a strangely pregnant pause. “You’re welcome, Throné,’’ Castti said softly, and Throné heard her boots trotting away across the wooden floor. The door swung, creaking on its hinges, and then a soft click came from its doorknob.
It took Throné a few more minutes before she threw the bedsheets off of herself, got to her feet, and stumbled over to the bathtub. She blinked at it for a while. She had never seen the water be this…blue. She wondered what the heck Castti had put in it.
…Castti.
… Oh gods, I said Cass. Out loud.
She squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her teeth, clenched her fists. She, extremely acutely, felt a strange sort of pressure on her neck -- even though it was now bare, the collar down at the bottom of the deep valley of that cursed village.
No. You’re not going to lose your shit now. Get in that damn bath and calm the hell down.
You don’t want to let her hard work go to waste.
She undressed -- after a lifetime of training for the worst kind of missions, she knew how to lace and unlace her corset quickly for quick disguise swaps, or the process of shedding her dress with just the right motions, the perfect areas of her body to emphasize in order to keep the noble's eye trained on her (and not the poison dosed in their wineglass, or even the other Blacksnake in the room with knife bared). Right now, though? She let it all drop ungainly to the floor, taking some amusement in the way the corset bounced and folded in on itself, and the big clunk the knife made as it flumped on top of the piled dress. As the rest of the smallclothes came off, she drew closer to the tub, letting herself be awash in the steam still rising from the water surface. She perched on the edge of the tub for a moment, breathing in, holding, out, in, holding, out.
Just let yourself partake already.
Throné finally slid into the bathwater -- the moment she sank to the bottom of the tub, all the tension in her bones evaporated into dust, swept away by the steam and the salts (lavender? jasmine? Those seemed right, but she was far worse at identifying these sorts of things than Castti, though not for lack of effort, with all the apothecary training she had received from her). There were lingering thoughts of everything that had plagued her; the scars from Mother’s whip, both the ones on her back accrued growing up and the ones on her arms inflicted in their battle, tinged slightly, feeling paradoxically both heated and cooled as the bathwater soothed them -- and certainly not painful, as before. The mostly-healed knife wound in the back of her calf, from Father’s knife, ached a little more, had cut her deeper (both literally and emotionally), but resting it deep in the water took the pressure off, let it feel lighter than it had in a long time, as if it was resting on a fluffy, pillowy cloud.
She treated all of these scars.
Well, not just her. Castti and Temenos had saved her life when she was bleeding out from those kinds of wounds, and not just during her actual fights with Mother and Father (or…Claude). It had been time and time again, uncountable over the course of all their journeys.
And it wasn’t just them. It was Agnea’s dancing and sunny disposition, lifting her spirits when she was down and magically imbuing her with strength. It was Hikari crossing blades, getting right up in the enemy’s face, his impeccable sense of justice taking the brunt of their focus so she could focus on delivering her quick and deadly strikes…alongside Partitio’s enthusiastic, unconditional support, and Ochette and Akalā’s precise shots and boundless exuberance. And Osvald’s powerfully destructive spells, tempered by his gruff but fatherly disposition.
If it hadn’t been for them, if she hadn’t watched them defend that innocent puppy from those thugs…
Throné sank a little deeper, the waterline coming up to her lips. Her neck was submerged now. Her bare neck. The reason she had set out at all, so she could do this very thing -- feel something on there, anything, anything but that heavy leather and the deadly poisons it somehow held within. (She was never really certain how; Partitio and Osvald had expressed curiosity in examining the thing to learn, but the moment it was off, she had flung it over the castle ramparts into the fog of the valley below, and she had caught a glimpse of Osvald’s face sagging in understanding-but-disappointment.) The cool valley air upon that band of skin that had been covered for over half her life? That had been shocking enough. The warm bathwater, the invigorating salts that Castti had added? It was…beyond heavenly.
Castti.
She had been right there, at Throné’s side, as she fought Claude. Had kept her healthy, alive -- and when he had called the shades of the Blacksnakes, paralyzing her in her tracks, it was Castti who had called out to her to stay focused, to remind her that it was not Pirro, or Mother or Father…or Marietta. She was what had given Throné the strength to cut through them. To make it to Claude himself and sink Father’s dagger to the hilt between his ribs.
To wash away, if just for a brief moment, in the here and now, the omnipresent stench of blood.
Throné lifted her hands out of the water and stared. Scrutinized them closely, as if examining for any defects. Searching for the signs of any stains. There was nothing. Her fingers were pruning, slightly, from the bathwater; there was the tattoo, the length of a snake coiling around her left arm down to the back of her hand, but that at least contained no poisons or scents; and…that was all. Nothing else.
No blood.
Before, she had always been able to smell it even so. But here, in the bath her dear friend had drawn for her, she couldn’t even detect a whiff. It was just the scented salts (saffron? coconut oil? definitely lavender, but what the hell else?) wafting around her. Maybe my sense is dulled somehow. But no, the steam of the bathwater had cleared her sinuses; she breathed through her nose easier than she had in years.
Her mind was a different matter; Mother’s whipcracks, Father’s final words, Claude’s deep and horrifying laugh. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, those sounds would haunt her forever. Reminders of the blood-soaked path she had walked.
But that’s all they are, Throné, a voice whispered, a kind, uplifting, caring, musical note echoing in her ear. Reminders. Memories. Their grasp is real and strong, but they are also yours to surmount.
It was Castti’s voice.
She had a pretty good inkling why it was Castti’s voice. The realization pushed her back against the tub wall, and she sank a little deeper into the water, exhaling slowly.
Well, perhaps “realization” wasn’t the right word. Throné had been calling her “Cass” in her mind for quite some time now -- ever since she had passed out in front of her, from the wound in her calf, the last sound on her lips the only syllable she had been able to get out. She knew exactly why it had resonated, felt as if it had been lingering on her lips even after she had awoken.
And maybe now I can follow that path to its end.
When Castti started awake in the middle of the night, Throné’s bed was empty. She groaned, softly so as to not wake Ochette, Agnea, or Akalā, and pushed herself vertical, rubbed her eyes, then grabbed her cowl, cap, and satchel. At least she left the window closed this time.
Tracking down Throné in the middle of her nightly excursions had gotten to be a fun little game of theirs. Throné never left a trace, of course, but Castti had been at her side since nearly the beginning of all their journeys; she was well-versed in her friend’s habits and tells, and after fighting alongside her for several months now, she had picked up on the types of marks Throné went after and the sorts of places she used to hide. The first time she had called out to Throné down the darkest end of an alleyway, the thief had just about fallen from her perch of a second-story windowsill.
That all being said, Castti had a small feeling that she wouldn’t need to strain herself playing this game tonight. She was, after all, aware of a specific spot within the city that Throné claimed as her own.
Which isn’t to say that she felt no satisfaction upon opening the door to the rooftop and saw Throné standing against the railing, looking up at the moon, a furry form squatting at her side. It took a moment and a few strides for Castti to realize that the form was the puppy that the travelers had gone out of their way to aid, so long ago, when they had begun to form -- when Throné showed up for the ride. The puppy was actually looking at her, her tail swishing back and forth, a sudden movement that attracted Throné’s attention. She didn’t look remotely surprised when she followed the puppy’s gaze and met Castti’s eyes.
“Hey,” Castti said softly. Her fingers curled around her satchel’s strap, tension rose in her shoulders.
“Hey,” Throné said softly in return, a small smile beginning to curl. The tension immediately evaporated, replaced with a sense that she had momentarily started walking on air. “You got it pretty quick this time.”
“Is it cheating if I just remembered what you said?” Castti asked. She drew up to the railing, the puppy between her and Throné; she plaintively looked up at Castti, clearly expecting supplications of some sort. Castti smiled down at her and lowered her hand to begin scratching her ears.
“Nah. Turnabout’s fair play, and all.” Throné glanced down at the puppy and huffed a little breath. She didn’t raise her head again, and Castti waited. Now, of all times, she didn’t want to push Throné before she was ready.
It was almost a minute before Throné spoke again, her voice wavering. “Did I actually tell you why I like this spot?”
“No, actually.” Castti brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “I just assumed it was the view, though. And that would be enough, it’s lovely.” The lights of New Delsta’s apartments and nighttime establishments twinkled before her, dotted across an urban canvas. The bustle of the people, the chorus of those entertaining themselves late into the night, was still audible but at far more of a bearable level, a pleasant hum, an undertone rather than the dominating melody of the city. And that wasn’t even to mention the night sky above, the real stars sparkling, the moon keeping watch over everything.
Given Throné’s words that morning though -- gods, was it really only just this morning? This dawn? -- Castti wondered how much solace she actually took under the moonlight.
“It’s that, but…it’s also the one place in the city Mother and Father didn’t oversee.” Throné lifted her head then, biting her lip, and she glared at the golden spires of the game parlor a few blocks to the north. “Not that they didn’t know about it. They just didn’t consider it worth their time anymore, after they evacuated it to try and trap a rival gang. Place survived, but their interest didn’t. Which suited me fine.”
Castti frowned. “I’m surprised they didn’t think to follow you and find you.”
“I was careful. Always made sure I came when they were out and about, on missions or business elsewhere.” She closed her eyes, breathed in, let it out slowly. Castti recognized the pattern -- she had taught it to Throné herself, to help her come down from nightmares and panic attacks. Throné then smirked, but it wasn’t the self-assured confident one Castti was used to. There was no mirth in those lips at the moment. “Guess I don’t have to worry about timing it so neatly anymore.”
A small whimper came from under Castti’s hand, and with a pang of guilt, she resumed her scratches behind the puppy's ears. There are so many things she doesn’t have to worry about anymore, Castti mused, but she dared not say so out loud, for fear of being seen as making light of the burden that still clearly weighed upon Throné’s shoulders. So they stood there in silence for a moment, a slight breeze ruffling their dresses, Throné’s gaze still upon the game parlor in the distance, the dog’s tail still wagging back and forth, left and right. Between Throné and Castti.
“Pirro also came here to smoke a lot,” said Throné eventually, so quietly that Castti nearly didn’t hear her. “Always wanted to enjoy what pleasures he could get before death claimed him early, as it nearly always does in this business.”
Castti swallowed the lump in her throat. “It hasn’t claimed you,” she said, keeping her voice firm and determined. “It will not, if I have anything to say about it.” On some level, she certainly had, many times over the course of their journeys.
“I know.” Throné kept her eye trained on the game parlor, but Castti saw her right hand twitch. She flexed her fingers for a moment, closed then open, closed then open…and then, so slowly, so tentatively, she pushed the tips against the puppy’s scalp, and the puppy hummed pleasantly, and Throné began scratching her ear as well, and Castti’s heart soared. The puppy's tongue lolled out as she panted for a bit, and then she turned to Castti’s hand and began licking her leather gloves, and Castti giggled.
And when Castti looked up at Throné, she was smiling, and Castti felt the moon’s glow, and she wondered how anyone could dare force this beautiful woman into this horrific, bloody cycle.
“You’re not Pirro,” Castti said quietly, steel in her voice, such that Throné looked up at her, eyebrows raised. “You’re not Mother, nor are you Father. You are most certainly not Claude.” With one last scritch behind the pup’s ear, Castti lifted her hand and gently placed it upon the pommel of the dagger on Throné’s hip. “And…you’re not even Marietta.”
Throné’s dark eyes shimmered. Castti felt pensive, hesitant fingertips brush hers atop the knife’s pommel.
“You’re Throné,” said Castti, and her eyes briefly flicked down to take in the briefest of glimpses of Throné’s now-bare neck. “And you’re free. Of them, of their damned cycle of blood, of their expectations. Your path is now, truly, your own.”
Throné swallowed. Tears pooled in those beautiful eyes, made streaks down her cheeks. Castti turned her hand, shifting her fingers off the knife’s pommel, and began to curl them around Throné’s.
“Why doesn’t freedom smell any different?” Throné whispered. “Why does the stench of blood remain?”
Castti bit her lip, her fingers twitched, her brow furrowed. “It’s…too fresh,” she murmured. A young face, blond and smiling and innocent, flashed in her mind. A happy carefree face full of promise -- that then metamorphosed into the beaked mask of a plague doctor, a delusional, high-pitched, mad cackle echoing from behind it. “Today, tonight, probably even tomorrow…it will still linger, and it will still be awful.” Another face, kind, sweet, respect in her eyes and love in her smile…until she faded away into inky blackness, the only remaining trace a glimpse of brown hair and the scent of snowdrops.
Throné’s eyes fell, unable to meet Castti’s, and Castti knew she understood.
“...But the day after, with some rest, with some time…” With her other hand, Castti brushed the top of her satchel, and she smiled directly at Throné. “...it may be different. And if not then, then perhaps the day after.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her lip, carefully considering her words. “One day, eventually…the smell will dissipate, as smells do with enough time. And then you can discover so many other, different, wonderful smells. And perhaps others can help speed along the process, but if not, that’s okay too.”
And Castti intertwined the fingers of her left hand with Throné’s, and with her right, reached up and gently took Throné’s chin in her fingers, turning her face to look back at her through tearworn eyes. “Because you have time now, Throné.” Castti felt a tear roll down her own cheek, but she remained smiling. “We… have time now.”
The puppy emitted a soft whine, looking directly up at Throné as well. In that moment, it amused Castti that she was six years Throné’s elder, and yet the younger woman was noticeably taller. As much as Castti wanted her to look up and behold the stars, she wouldn't be able to make eye contact if she did. To behold those brown eyes, dark with sorrow and pain and, yes, blood -- but with a small pinprick of light within.
And then she remembered who she was talking to, how sensitive Throné was about people touching her, and she felt her face heat up in shame. She moved to withdraw her hand. But Throné’s free hand caught hers before she made it more than a few inches, and she pulled Castti’s hand back to her face, to palm her cheek. And she pressed her own palm to the back of Castti’s hand, and Castti’s thumb automatically moved to wipe the fresh tears falling. Castti’s courage came flowing back. It pushed her forward.
“I don’t know how long it’ll take, Cass,” Throné whispered, her voice low and hoarse and afraid.
“That’s okay, Throné,” Castti replied, leaning forward, pushing herself up on the ball of her foot. “I’m a patient girl.”
Throné met her halfway, and their lips pressed to each other, and Castti’s heart burst with happiness. The puppy seemed to make a self-satisfied huff, and her tail slapped the floor rapidly. Castti didn’t notice; her ears were ringing, fireworks were exploding in her skull, except it wasn’t painful like the sharp shooting sensation when she had suddenly recalled the loss of her dear friends, these were celebratory, uplifting, victorious, and she felt as if she was riding them to the sky, and Throné was right there with her, allowing a small gap in her carefully-crafted defenses, letting herself drink of a sensation so much sweeter than the taste of blood, allowing herself to feel, acknowledging the weight of the sacrifices it took to get to this point and find some kind of solace here and now--
Throné pulled back an inch, drawing in breath, her eyes blurry with tears.
“I’m sorry,” Castti said instantly, her shoulders seized up in fear, and she pulled back, grasped her satchel’s strap, became too keenly aware of how much she had overstepped, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Throné, I didn’t mean to--”
Throné grabbed her shoulders and she just about swooped in, her lips again pushing against Castti’s, and this time Castti could feel the desperation, the relief, the sheer need, and she threw her arms around Throné’s bare neck and kissed her back as hard as she could. The tension evaporated from her, leaving behind a woman who cared so much despite -- no, because she was so broken, filled with love for this woman who wanted permission to care.
No, I haven’t overstepped. Throné was wrestling with the idea that, for the first time ever, she could, actually truly for real, reach out and take what she wanted; before, she would have denied it to herself, out of shame or duty or inferiority or self-deprecation or unworthiness. But now she learns: she doesn’t need to justify it.
The very fact that she exists, that she is here, is reason enough to take this for herself. And I will gladly, willingly, lovingly extend my hand to her.
They separated again, peacefully this time, both slightly gasping for air, as they gazed at each other.
“I…didn’t know if you actually…wanted that,” Castti said sheepishly, her cheeks warm despite the cool city air and their high altitude.
Throné smirked, and there was the confidence that Castti had dearly missed. “Even after I accidentally dropped the pet name for you I’ve had in my head for months?”
“You’re right, that was a pretty glaring hint.” Castti breathed in her scent. She caught a whiff of lavender, tinged with safflower and jasmine. From the salts. “I loved it. Please call me that forever.”
Throné laughed softly and kissed her again, and she murmured “Shouldn't be so greedy, Cass,” against her lips, and Castti shuddered all the way down to her bones.
“No, believe me,” Castti whispered. She pulled back slightly, just enough so that she could press her forehead to Throné’s (the height difference wasn’t that much). “I have been keenly aware of the times that’s slipped out,” her stomach was performing incredible gymnastics within her, and she gripped Throné’s shoulder to stay steady, “and I… may…have cherished each and every time.”
Throné gulped. “Wait. I said it…more times than tonight?”
Castti gazed up at Throné, her heart bursting with warmth. “First I noticed was when you passed out in Winterbloom, which…I’m pretty sure was just you losing consciousness in the middle of my name.” Throné blinked rapidly. “It hasn’t been that often since; maybe just one or two after we all had several rounds at a tavern somewhere. Oh--” She grinned. “You definitely let it slip when you were comforting me after I recovered my memories at Healeaks.” Throné blinked some more; her cheeks had become so red, Castti was fairly certain they wouldn’t need lanternlight up here in a bit. “And then, you know. Two or three times tonight.” She moved her hand, and she gently settled a finger against Throné’s cheek, ghosting the pad back and forth. Throné’s eyes closed and she let out a small involuntary noise. Oh, I’m going to have to remember that. “Point being: I’ve had some time to get used to it, and decide that I love hearing you say it.”
Throné swallowed again, though this time it seemed to be to get rid of the lump in her throat. She opened her eyes and gazed down at Castti. “Point taken,” she murmured, slightly dreamily.
A soft whine came from near their feet, and the two women separated slightly and looked down to see the puppy, settled on her belly and leaning comfortably against their calves, looking up at them, her tail a blur with how fast it whipped back and forth. Throné chuckled and put a hand to her forehead. The pup’s gaze seemed to have recentered her, after Castti had been so successful at knocking her off-balance. “Pleased to get a second mom, are you?” she said, a little slyly.
“Oh, no. This one’s yours. I’m already ‘ma’ to a be-tailed creature.”
Throné shut her eyes and her shoulders shook as she stifled her laugh into a snort. With her free hand, she patted her leg, and the puppy rose to her feet and turned in place until Throné’s hand could reach her scalp again. Castti, not to be outdone, leaned into Throné’s sternum; the taller woman wrapped her free arm back around her and held her tightly, resting her cheek against Castti’s forehead.
Castti breathed in her scent. Whatever Throné’s brain was telling her, she did not remotely reek of blood; even if she did, it wasn’t as if it would drive Castti away. I do prefer the bath salts, though, she thought, and giggled slightly. She feels as beautiful as she deserves to be. Especially without the weight of the collar on her--
Her neck.
They had hugged before, if not quite so intimately, but Castti remembered the cold, foreboding kiss of the collar around Throné’s neck pressing against her own skin, and she couldn’t be grateful enough that it was gone, that now all she felt was the other’s warmth. As a matter of fact… Her heart leaped into her throat as it hit her.
She was the first one to touch Throné here in over ten years. She was the first one Throné wanted to have touch her there.
Her chest swelled with pride and she closed her eyes, gently nuzzling with her head, and she felt Throné shiver and sigh happily. Slowly, tentatively, afraid she’d shatter the fragile peace that had settled upon them, she pulled her left glove off, and she raised the hand.
“May I?” she whispered.
“Yeah,” Throné said immediately, and Castti heard her swallow air and her heart beat faster. “P…Please.”
Castti pressed her finger just below the thin red band, and Throné shuddered as she gently ran it along her skin. “How does it feel?” Castti asked, hesitant, wary, stepping on eggshells.
“It chafes a little,” Throné replied. Castti watched her other hand come up, her finger trace the marked skin. Their fingers touched, and they, nigh on instinct, curled around each other. “But it’s not painful. It…” She cycled through a breath. “It feels like it’s able to breathe for the first time.”
Castti smirked knowingly. “There may be a little literal truth to that.” No better time for it, then; she flipped her satchel open, dug through it for a second, easily finding what she was searching for, and pulled a small vial up and out into the air. She held it like a jewel between two fingers before Throné’s face. “Anti-irritant,” she said matter-of-factly. “Dab a little on your fingertip and apply it slowly all around. Once in the morning, once at night. Judging from the…collar’s material, it should be gone in a few days.”
She felt Throné sigh against her forehead, and the thief plucked the vial from her. “Of course you’d have something like this ready.” She was clearly trying her best to sound put-upon and exasperated, but the effect was spoiled as Castti felt herself pulled closer into her, holding her even tighter.
“It’s one of those little medicines that’s always handy to have on hand.” Castti smiled at the memory of when she procured the last thing she needed for it; it wasn’t that long ago, when they had passed through Cropdale on the way to Timberain. To stop him. “Would you believe one of the ingredients is raspberry seed oil?”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Swear to Dohter.” With a smirk, Castti smartly tapped Throné’s lips with her now-empty fingertips. “Almost makes you believe it was meant to be, hm?”
Her heart skipped a beat, her breath hitched, when Throné grabbed her hand and laid a soft kiss on her fingers’ pads. “Almost,” she whispered into them, and Castti shuddered. “Not that I've ever been a fan of fate.” She felt Throné grin against her fingertips. “You should know, Cass -- I'm more about taking what I want.”
She felt the puppy pacing in place, rubbing her scent on the legs of her new mamas. She felt Throné’s arm snake across her back, tracing a line with a fingertip that somehow through her dress ignited her skin. When Throné maneuvered her hand to her own face, she felt her cheek in the palm of her hand, smooth and beautiful.
And when Throné turned her head down and moved in again, she definitely felt those lips on her own -- deep, warm, intense.
Her own path -- how she would move on after losing Malaya and Andy, Randy and Elma, Trousseau -- was still unclear to Castti. She had a sense that she wouldn’t mind, as long as she and Throné could help each other stay true to their paths.
Throné and Castti walked into the inn lobby, a strangely familiar tanned canine pacing behind them, and Temenos rose to his feet, sucking in a deep breath as he prepared to deliver the harshest admonition he could think of for the dear friend they hadn’t been able to find that morning. The words died in his throat the moment he saw their hands clasped together between them.
“Ma!” “Throné! You’re okay!” Ochette and Agnea bolted out of their own chairs, and Throné let out the most undignified oof in existence as the young girls crashed into them, delivering hugs at reckless speeds. She gasped for air as Agnea babbled about how worried she was, and Castti laughed gaily and embraced Ochette back, scratching behind her ears and sending her tail into overdrive.
And Temenos, having apparently lost motor function in his jaw, used one hand to close his mouth and sat back down. He smiled, without a hint of irony. He’d have time to needle them later, he supposed. Well, his assistant, at least -- Castti could actually fight back.
Right now, he was just glad Throné was still with them. And, from the looks of it, would continue to be.