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She couldn’t stand her in the beginning.
Throné intended to stroll by without a word upon reaching Canalbrine. That lost look on her face, as if it was her first time stepping foot into any semblance of civilization, reminded Throné of the rich tourists who visited New Delsta. Easy targets with deep pockets. She hadn’t stooped that low in some time—only an amateur preyed on those types—but traveling drained her own coin purse within days. Thus she slipped in to swipe that leather satchel.
And failed miserably.
Well, she did acquire something: a traveling companion in one Castti Florenz, an apothecary with amnesia, who was on a journey to discover who she was. Gods, Throné could’ve solved that for her; she was a pain in the ass, always wanting to stop and chat with every damn person in every damn town. And her compulsion to offer aid to strangers? Why? Why bother being nice when dozens upon dozens of shady types existed to prey on her compassion and hospitality?
You’re going to get us killed one of these days, Throné kept to herself after they—okay, correction: Castti—helped yet another injured person on the side of the road. Between that and wandering off the trail to pick weeds or whatever she was doing, Castti was bound to lose her neck, never mind more memories.
Maybe it was a con, a means to trick others into mirroring her kindness. Throné was beyond acquainted with that game, even played it herself back in the day. All the more reason to stay on guard around this apothecary. Besides, if the rumors were true about Eir’s Apothecaries, then Castti’s hands were stained with far more blood than her own.
That didn’t sit well with Throné. Not in a way she associated with rivals or competition in general, but... she couldn’t pinpoint the sentiment. It was as if she couldn’t fathom why someone with the potential to cause that much excruciating pain to anyone she pleased would just... be kind. Be selfless. Be merciful. She lost her memories, after all. A part of herself that she likely would never reclaim. Why didn’t that stir rage and contempt within Castti?
Why couldn’t Throné find a reason to walk a similar, lighter path herself?
But as they accumulated more party members and meandered from continent to continent, Throné’s hazy emotions sharpened into crystal clear focus. She watched from afar as Castti conversed with townsfolk. Her perpetual smile—that stunning, enticing smile—warmed her features, something she shared with everyone, no matter how long she had known them. Seconds? Days? Years? Didn’t matter. It was all the same to Castti.
And Throné realized it wasn’t Castti she loathed; it was the notion that such genuine affection would never be reserved for just her.
If only she could travel back in time. She’d snatch Castti’s hand instead of her satchel and kidnap her. Run away to the ends of the world and keep her to herself. Perhaps Castti would’ve learned to avoid dropping everything to save the lives of absolute strangers. Was there anything she desired beyond serving the sick and dying? Did Castti not year for a life of freedom, to unchain her soul from the self-imposed role of a healer?
Would she only give Throné her undivided attention if she was wounded?
That twisted her stomach until bile slicked her throat. Throné steadied her breaths and swallowed down the bitter truth. Or perhaps she was overthinking the situation. Maybe there was more to Castti than a glorified apothecary handing out miracles like cheap candy. Thinking so ill of others was intended for folks in New Delsta’s underbelly, not someone like Castti.
Even so, Throné’s time in the Blacksnakes tempered and forged her into the weapon she was today. The abuse and threats branded her heart. It was what kept her alive all those years.
It was also why she bit down on a leather belt one night and stabbed her left hand, just to see how Castti reacted.
She should’ve picked a better location; the cozy room at a random inn was hardly a place for a medical emergency. No doubt the innkeeper would throw a tantrum, charging an extra cleaning fee due to her blood staining the quilted comforters and wooden furnishings. Gods, there she went again. Ruining everything nice she yearned to covet, but could never fucking have so long as—
“Throné?!”
She lolled her head back. Sitting in the far corner on the floor wasn’t remotely comfortable. Neither was picking out glass shards after smashing a wine bottle to complete the illusion that this was indeed an accident. What wrenched her heart the most, however, was seeing the utter panic consuming Castti’s features.
To her credit, Castti wasted zero time. She bolted across the room, dropped to her knees beside Throné, and dumped the contents of her satchel onto the floorboards.
“What happened?” Castti demanded as she rifled through countless tools and vials.
“I was about to pour myself a glass of wine,” she lied, “and the bottle must’ve slipped and....” Throné sighed and flexed her fingers. Yup, that was going to hurt like a bitch for a while. “Yeah. Here we are.”
Castti blew out a breath. “Then hold still and let me help you.”
That much Throné could manage. It hurt, more than she wanted to admit, but....
It was worth it.
To have Castti inches away. To feel her bare hands—gods, the sight of Castti tearing off her gloves with her teeth evoked decadent chills—tenderly holding her injured one. To watch her work and treat her like all those other faceless people who did not deserve her attention and care. To know that for a moment, she could have this and share it with fucking no one.
And true to her word, Castti helped her. She worked wonders akin to magic without uttering an incantation. She stopped the bleeding, cleaned up the blood, sealed the gash carved into her palm, and dressed it with soft, white strips of cloth. She even numbed the pain with a cooling gel alongside an antibiotic. All done effortlessly, seamlessly. Throné expected no less from the leader of Eir’s Apothecaries.
“We’ll need to keep an eye on it,” Castti murmured while gathering her fallen belongings, “and make sure it properly closes, but I’ll concoct an ointment in the morning to speed up the process. Provided that you don’t use your left hand for anything strenuous, it won’t require stitches or additional treatments. And please let me know if you notice any signs of infection.”
“Duly noted,” Throné sighed out, then cracked a slight smile. “Thanks, Castti. You’re a lifesaver.”
But the warmth in Castti’s face faded and her lips settled into a firm, straight line.
“Castti?” she asked, trying desperately to ignore how her heart raced. “Everything alright?”
Those lovely blue eyes stared elsewhere. She sat back on her heels, wiped her hands clean, and opted for silence.
Not for long, though.
“Why?” she asked and Throné almost missed it.
“Why... what?”
When her gaze returned to Throné, Castti bore into her with a stare sharper and deadlier than any blade she ever wielded.
“Why did you lie to me, Throné?” she asked, more of a demand than a question.
Throné paled and slumped where she sat. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Yes, you do.”
She held her breath as Castti’s expression hardened and contorted with a blend of confusion and aggravation.
“You said you cut your hand on the broken glass,” Castti explained, “but you didn’t. That’s a stab wound. I know it is.”
“It—”
“Don’t tell me I’m wrong.” She heaved out a jaded exhale. “I may have lost my memories, but I still have my wits about me.” Castti tilted her head. “Who did this to you?”
No reply.
The tendons in Castti’s jaw pulsed. “Are you withholding information to protect me? Throné, please, if someone is after you—”
“I did it, alright?!”
Castti gasped and flinched. Wide eyes locked onto Throné, who coughed up a sour chuckle at her predicament.
“No one is after any of us,” she borderline growled. “I stabbed myself. Plain and simple.”
She blinked. “But... but why?”
But if Throné uttered the truth... maybe that would be the final straw that shattered whatever threadbare bond barely wove them together for the sake of safe travels. And yet as Castti stared at her, unblinking and waiting, Throné failed to muster the strength to whisper a single sound.
So she didn’t say a damn thing; she just seized Castti’s neck with her good hand, reeled her in, and claimed her lips for her own.
A gasp, a shudder. Time froze between them as Throné basked in the softness residing in Castti’s lips. Might as well enjoy it while she could, because she doubted Castti wanted to humor any of this again. Besides, Throné was just another patient, just another broken soul requiring Castti’s fleeting, yet meticulous aid. And it was worth harming herself to taste something better than raspberry jam.
Throné allowed a brief coo to roll off her tongue as she retracted. Warmth lingered on her lips. It was nice while it lasted, that kiss. All good things came to an end, though, did they not? And nothing pleasant was ever meant for someone such as her—
Castti snorted. Throné cocked her head. Of all the reactions she braced herself for, Throné never factored laughter into the equation.
Disgust ebbed and welcomed embarrassment in its wake. Throné’s cheeks burned as Castti recoiled in a fit of thinly veiled chuckles.
“What now?” Throné deadpanned when Castti refused to shut up.
“Forgive me,” she somehow said, grinning and blushing, “I meant no offense.”
An eyebrow twitched up. “You don’t say.”
“It’s—” Castti sank her teeth into her lower lip. A violent quake erupted in her body, then calmed to stillness. “That’s a first for me.”
Throné blinked. “The kiss?” Oh gods, just what she needed now.
“Oh no! Not that.” But then she smirked. “Or maybe it is. I can’t recall, you see.”
“Can you stop treating me like a child and—”
“I’ve never tended to someone before,” Castti explained, unable to maintain eye contact, “who injured themselves for, um....” Blue eyes flicked over Throné. “The hope of me arriving to mend them.”
Well, at least Throné could claim that for herself.
“Still,” Castti murmured, “I don’t understand why you resorted to such extreme measures to....” She licked her lips and cleared her throat. “You shouldn’t do that again, Throné. You had me very worried.”
Her chest swelled with pride upon hearing that. “You’re quite a difficult woman to pin down.”
A deeper shade of pink flourished on Castti’s face. “B-beg your pardon?”
“You only care about the sick and wounded, so I figured....” Throné shrugged her shoulder, the motion half-hearted at best. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have bothered. You’re always going to treat everyone the same way, no matter who they are. Nothing special. Just the honest truth. And someone like me?” She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I’m not worth the trouble.”
“Yes, you are.”
Throné hitched her breath as Castti crawled into her lap, as she cupped her cheek, as she smiled with a radiance that Throné had never witnessed before.
“If it’s you?” Castti chuckled, smoothing a thumb over the edge of Throné’s mouth. “Then you’ll always be worth the trouble.”
Nothing bubbled in Throné’s mind. Not a retort, a question, or something in between. However, it was troublesome to do anything when Castti sank into her and found a home against her lips.
A gentle coo vibrated between them. Soft warmth enveloped Throné as they nibbled on one another. Each kiss—slow, yet lined with fervor—simultaneously calmed her anxious heart and sent it ricocheting in her ribcage. She forgot about her bandaged hand, forgot there was still shattered glass to pick up off the floor, and forgot what even troubled her to begin with.
Maybe this wouldn’t last forever. The night was ephemeral, after all, and the sun would always rise. But for now, Throné devoured Castti and savored the notes soaking her tongue and soul. And whenever she was tempted to have a taste of her again? At least now she understood that she didn’t need medical attention to cherish a stolen moment with Castti.
All she needed to do was ask. Simple enough. Throné could get used to that, actually.