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It has been over five hundred years since she last encountered Bernkastel.
Though, Lambdadelta should be exact. It wouldn’t do for a Witch of Certainty to shy away from precision. In the forefront of her mind, she knows it has been five hundred and twenty-four years since their graduation, leaving behind St. Lucia Academy and their adoring audience with bloody splashes and a christening of stars.
Currently, Lambdadelta sighs and rests her hands on her cheeks. She’s sitting in her office, surrounded by all manners of pink. Plush pink pillows, a mahogany pink table, a leather pink rolling chair, and an assortment of pink candies, toys, and jewels line her pink shelves. Anyone other than those accustomed to her Senate office would have their retinas seared by the garish array of pink, pink, pink. Even her laptop is pink, an upgrade from the days of pink typewriters and pink bottles corked tight with pink pieces of paper.
Pink is often denoted as a cheerful color, while Lambdadelta is anything but. She balances a pencil on her puckered lips, humming tunelessly. The cubicles of the Senate are filled with the typical hustle and bustle of a workplace as witches, furniture, and angels walk through the tight corridors carrying assignments and books. Should someone step into her domain, she has half a mind to transport them to an unfortunate fragment as she continues to shirk her duties, her half-lidded gaze narrowed on the time in the bottom right corner of her screen.
It’s nearly noon, and while her stomach grumbles, she can’t bring herself to stand. She hasn’t checked her emails, or conferred with her superiors about interesting game boards on the cusp of reality. Through the grapevine, she’s aware of a “Deluge of Grulovia” in one off-kilter fragment, the conventions of that world blending realism and fantasy. But although intrigue sparks in her heart to uncover the possible makings of a new witch, Lambdadelta sinks in her seat, yawns, and kicks her feet up on her desk.
Boredom is the witch’s ailment, and it is certainly eating away at her. Lambdadelta’s eyelids flutter, like the cat she loves. She flicks her attention to the entrance, watching furniture keeping their heads bowed as they pass. One by one, or two by two, people flow. Their elegant forms or disheveled selves cross her vision, new bodies appearing between every languid blink.
Dark splotches form in the center of her pupils, and she is jarred by the strong scent of plea tea.
She snaps awake, a noise caught in her throat. It isn’t exhaustion, for the smudges remain as she shoots upright. Her heels hit the tiled floor with a clatter, and in a fashion entirely unlike her beloved, Bernkastel is simply, suddenly, with no fanfare, standing in her doorway.
“Lambda,” she says, appearing and smelling exactly as Lambdadelta recalls.
“Eh-” Another din hits the roof of her mouth. She shakes her head, dispersing the quackish sound, and she flings her finger at Bernkastel’s nose. “N-no way, no way! You can’t be serious, Bern! How am I supposed to be happy to see you when you walk in so casually after centuries?”
Her expression, a neutral line for her mouth and eyes like coal, is unchanged. “In that case, if you aren’t happy to see me-”
Bernkastel turns to leave, and Lambdadelta pounces. She seizes Bernkastel’s waist, practically tackling her fellow witch into another cubicle. She rubs her cheek against the crown of Bernkastel’s head, squealing and kicking her legs. She burns as pink as her office, bouncing in place while Bernkastel waits, her patience finite, and Lambdadelta strokes through her silken hair, sighing out all the agitation in her lungs.
“Lambda,” Bernkastel dryly remarks, and she wedges her fingers into Lambdadelta’s soft cheek, “we are both Senate witches. I have to appear for work meetings sometimes.”
The shapes of bloody crescent moons imprint on her skin. Lambdadelta sighs, the pain a pleasure she has longed to feel. She leans into Bernkastel’s touch, who smooths her thumb over the wounds.
Lambdadelta locks her arms around Bernkastel’s other bicep. Procured like prey in a bear trap, she refuses to let Bernkastel slip from her iron grip. She glances at the murmuring furniture, who gasp and bow their heads, their shame radiating like a foul stench. As they know their place, Lambdadelta tugs Bernkastel into her office, asking if Bernkastel ever checks her voicemail.
“If someone wants to reach me, then they will,” is her cryptic answer, and Lambdadelta giggles.
“This is why the records department has such a troublesome time with you, Bern. I know for a bonafide fact that you’re lightyears behind on approving emergency resurrection forms.”
“I signed one,” she counters, hardly defensive, and the corner of her lip curls. “Besides, while I still have matters to attend to, I’m here for a reason.”
“For me?”
“For you.”
Lambdadelta beams, savoring Bernkastel’s honesty like a glass of aged rum. Bernkastel presses her hands together, rubs them, and she reminds Lambdadelta of an old miko, who once asked if her actions were a trick or magic.
And what appears pinched in Bernkastel’s right hand is just up the sleeve of the Golden Witch.
It’s a lollipop shaped like a flattened brain. Green and violet swirls color the hard candy. Pulses of light lime energy, wafting with hints of grape, emanate from the treat, casting a pleasant, warm glow across Lambdadelta’s face.
“This is a PSI Pop from the world heralding the Deluge of Grulovia. I happened to pass by that fragment,” she says, and she tucks the candy between Lambdadelta’s fingers. “A token to our reunion, no matter how uneventful.”
Lambdadelta smiles, cupping the sweet. But she doesn’t lick it, not yet, and sets it behind her ear. When Bernkastel tilts her head, asking why, Lambdadelta grasps her hand and pulls Bernkastel into her cubicle, insisting two lovers require privacy,
As Bernkastel smirks, they vanish into a starry realm, a universe of their own.